FIRE!
by DarkMark
Summary: If the Marvel Universe really began in 1961, then by 1972, SpiderMan, the Fantastic Four, the Avengers, the XMen, and all the rest might find it was time forFIRE!
1. Part 1:  Kindling

FIRE! 

A Tale of the Marvel Universe 

by DarkMark 

NOTE: Characters in this story are property of Marvel Comics. No money is being made from this story, no infringement is intended. 

* * *

I. Kindling 

The old man stood and watched them come. 

Two generations of his family arriving for Christmas Eve, 1999. The one he had sired, with the help of his wife, who still bustled about in the kitchen as wives did on this night throughout the century. The one his son and daughter had created, still young, still in grade school. 

But old enough to be told the story. 

He wore glasses, now. Not unlike the ones he'd worn as a boy, then abandoned, thinking he'd have no need of them for the rest of his life. Well, age has a way of disconvincing you of such conceits. He turned from his window to look in the dresser mirror. The hair was still there, he'd missed the curse of balding. But the white streaks weren't just in the temples anymore. 

The clothes he wore, vest, white shirt, gray pants, they, too, reminded him of his youth. Such a strange, hellish, yet satisfying youth it had been, too. Even for the Sixties. 

That was what he had to tell the young ones about tonight. Every generation had to hear the story. This would probably be the last to hear it from one of those who had really been there. Some matters were too important to leave to history books. 

He smiled, briefly, and wondered if he'd rate more than a line or two in the textbooks of the 21st Century. Considering some of the things that had been written about him in the 20th, maybe that was for the better. 

The doorbell rang. His wife called his name from the kitchen. "I'll get it, babe," he replied, and went to the door. 

"Hi, Pop!" said his son George, dressed up in black Navy peacoat, still bedecked with some New York snow. 

"Daddy!" said his daughter May, still looking as lovely as her mother had at her age, in a white-furred coat and pantsuit and boots. She had black hair. Nobody had figured out quite where that came from. But both his children managed to find a way to embrace him simultaneously. He grabbed one with either arm, and grinned as he hugged them. 

"At ease, you two," he said. "Merry Christmas to you both. Where's the support troops?" 

"Over here," said Andrea, his son's wife, crowding through the door with wrapped packages. 

"And here," Frank, his daughter's husband, added, herding his son and Andrea's daughter before him. "Merry Christmas, and Happy Y2K. Sorry, no bottled water." 

The old man's wife had come out of the kitchen, beaproned and still sweaty from the cooking. "It's almost done, you guys. You can blame him for keeping me too busy to be on schedule today. Anybody for apertifs beforehand?" 

"Mom," said his son, handing out the second hug of the evening. "Great to see you as well." 

"Ditto," added his daughter, managing to find a hand of his wife's to grasp. "Wish you could make it down more often." 

"It's been twice since September," said his wife. "How often do you think Frank wants to see his mother-in-law?" 

Frank gave a sheepish grin. 

The old man cleared his throat. His son and daughter knew that cue all too well. 

"If you would," he said, "I'd like to be alone with the kids for a little while. I'll try to be finished up by dinner." 

The boy said, cautiously, "What's on, Grandpop? Not a Santa Claus thing, is it?" 

"Oh, behave," said the girl, tiredly. "Granddad's cooler than that. We've been deClaused already." 

"Come with me, you two," the old man said. "Don't worry, it won't hurt, it won't cost you anything, and it's not fattening." 

The boy thought about making a cutting remark using the last bit, directed at the girl, then thought better of it. There were, after all, grownups present. He and the girl followed the old man into a back room den. The old man shut and locked the door. 

The two of them looked at each other warily. 

"I'm about to tell you the story," he said. "I told it to your parents a long time ago, when I figured they were able to keep a secret. I'll only tell it to you if you can do the same. No blabbing to your schoolmates, no talking about it to anyone. But it's an important story, and it has to be passed on. And you can pass it on to your kids, when you have some, and so on. So. Think you can keep your lips zipped?" 

The boy looked at the girl. She said, "Affirmative, grandpa." 

The old man looked at his grandson. "How's about you, brother? Unless you say 'yes', and mean it, I won't give you a word of it." 

The boy sighed. "Yes, grandpop. I can keep a secret. How secret is it?" 

"Going to tell you about the Fire." 

"What fire?" 

"The Fire of '72," he said, quietly. 

"Oh," said the boy. "We know about that. It's in the history books, grandpop." 

"How'd you like to know," he said, "about the parts that aren't? Well?" 

The girl said, "You know about the Fire, Granddad? Were you there?" 

He said, "Yes. In a very important way, I was there. Do you want to hear?" 

The boy shifted in his seat. "Yeah. I want to hear. I'll keep it a secret." 

"Me, too," she confirmed. 

The old man smiled. "Well, then. Let's get started. It starts about 29 years ago. About a year before I became a superhero." 

Both of their jaws dropped. 

He was proud of that reaction. 

He began to tell the story. 

***** 

It's been almost thirty years since the Sixties. You kids think you know about them, from reading a few books or listening to some old albums of your parents' or watching some movies. Just like us kids back then thought we knew about World War II from watching COMBAT or McHALE'S NAVY. Those were two old television programs. 

We didn't. And you don't. 

Well, then. The Sixties. 

The Fifties didn't end with the Fifties. Eisenhower was still president in 1960. Did you know that? Fifteen years had passed since the end of World War II, by then. We were still basking in the afterglow of victory. We were still all-out opponents of Communism. We were still in the midst of postwar prosperity. We were still, as far as we were concerned, God's chosen nation. 

It was a time of confidence, of unquestioned patriotism. A time in which it was not only all right to love America, but in which it was expected of you. And we did. We really loved America. 

You were not there then. You cannot know how it was. 

Well, we also had a war at that time. A cold one. With the Russians. They weren't quite like they are now, with Boris Yeltsin and the alliance and all that. They were our enemies, and they were led by a bald guy named Khruschev who liked to yell and pound his shoe a lot at the United Nations. Back then, he was as close as we got to a super-villain. 

But it was a cold war. We weren't throwing nukes around, or directly attacking each other. That would have meant, as far as we knew, the end of the world. So we did other things instead. Like putting up spite fences. The Berlin Wall, which went up in '61, was one of those. It divided West Berlin, which was under our control, from East Berlin, which was controlled by the Russians. It was big and wide and meant to be just about impossible to cross. A few people managed to cross it, but not many. 

We fought turf battles in other nations, using military advisors and weapons which we lent or gave or sold to the countries we were involved with. We slung a lot of angry words at each other. And we did other things to show the world, and ourselves, who was really boss. 

Then, one day, above the Earth, the Russians showed us who was boss. In a way. That was the day they put Yuri Gagarin, a cosmonaut, in orbit around the Earth. That was the start of the space race. The real reason was to show up the other nation by getting into space and doing things first. We weren't so hot on that at first, because a lot of our rockets blew up on the launching pad. It was a good thing we didn't have manned tests at that time. 

But we decided that if we could get to the Moon first, we'd put the Russians in their place by doing so. We thought we could make it there by the end of the decade. 

Reed Richards thought we could make it there by the start of it. 

You know who Reed Richards is? They've told you about him in school? Well, good. Let me tell you about that day in 1961 when the story really began. 

He had a thing they called the Pocket Rocket. It had an experimental drive and fuel, much more efficient than what NASA was fooling with at Canaveral. But the government wouldn't let him take it into space, because they hadn't fully approved the design, and because Richards wanted to be the pilot himself. He was sure that, after a successful test flight into orbital space and back, his Pocket Rocket could make it all the way to the Moon. 

Reed also knew about experimental rockets being created by a Russian named Ivan Kragoff, who predicted he could be on the moon within two years. The U. S. government didn't much like the sound of that. Reed liked it even less than they did. 

So Reed convinced his girlfriend, Sue Storm, and his friend, Ben Grimm, who had been a fighter pilot in the Pacific during World War II, to come along with him on an unauthorized test flight. At first Ben didn't want to go up, because he didn't think Reed had installed heavy enough shielding on the rocket. He was worried about Van Allen Belt radiation. But Sue almost called him a coward, and Ben got mad enough to agree to Reed's plan. Johnny Storm, who was a teenager and Sue's kid brother, blackmailed his way onto the flight. 

Reed and company bluffed their way into the rocket, saying they were just doing an inspection. Then they ignited it, and it took them into space. The government thought from the radar images that they were getting attacked by the Russians until Reed broke in on the radio and confirmed who he was. They ordered him to come down, but he didn't...not just then. 

Don't fidget, youngster. We're getting to the good part. Trust me, okay? 

Well. Ben Grimm was right about the radiation. Reed hadn't gotten them heavy enough shielding, and the rocket passed through what was called a cosmic storm. Not your normal kind of Van Allen Belt stuff. It incapacitated them, almost. They had to turn the ship around and crashland on some hilly ground upstate. Luckily enough, none of them were killed, or even hurt. But they found out, after they got out of the rocket, that they were different. 

The cosmic storm had given them all powers. 

Reed Richards had gained the power to stretch his entire body as if he were 180 pounds of elastic material...which, really, he was. Sue Storm found out that she could become invisible. Later, she learned she could project force fields, and turn other people or things invisible, as well. Yeah, I know you'd like to have that power! Johnny Storm could set his whole body ablaze and fly, just like the original Human Torch. 

But Ben Grimm fared the worst, because he was transmuted into a monster. His whole body turned scaly and orange, and he gained the greatest strength anyone had seen in one man since the days of the Sub-Mariner. He was ugly, and was fated to stay that way. The only thing he could call himself was...well...the Thing. 

They decided that they had to use their new powers to serve humanity, as corny as that may sound to you, to make up for the mistake they'd made in launching the rocket prematurely. There had been other super-teams years before, in the War...the Invaders, the Liberty Legion, the All-Winners Squad. Reed called their team the Fantastic Four. 

For the most part, since 1955, the world had been without super-heroes. On that day in late 1961, the situation changed. 

The Fantastic Four moved to New York, they rented a skyscraper called the Baxter Building, and they found themselves some villains to fight. They started out during my freshman year in high school. The Human Torch was just my age. I thought that was neat. I thought he was neater. 

The debut of the FF was like the starting gun of a new age of heroes and villains. Early the next year, the Sub-Mariner came back. You know him, right? King of Atlantis, breathes air and water, stronger than anyone this side of the Hulk? He'd been on both sides of the hero / villain line. He continued to be. He fought the Fantastic Four again and again, in the early days. 

Right after him, the world's deadliest villain turned up. He was a lot less ambiguous than Sub-Mariner. He wore a suit of solid steel armor, with deadly weapons built into just about every inch of it. His face had been terribly disfigured in an accident that he blamed on Reed Richards. He called himself Dr. Doom, and he wanted to destroy the Fantastic Four and conquer the world. He got pretty close to each goal, every time he appeared. And he appeared a lot. 

Just before that, another scientist got caught in a snafu, by which we mean "situation normal, all fouled up". Only the situation was anything but normal. His name was Bruce Banner. He'd created a gamma bomb, which the military liked a lot because it put down a lot of "dirty" radiation. He was at the site where the Army was going to explode a prototype of the bomb. The problem was that he had to save a kid named Rick Jones, who'd wandered onto the test site. Don't ever do something stupid like that, kids, because what happens to you won't be what happened to Dr. Banner. Most likely, you'll die. 

Dr. Banner caught the full blast of radiation from the bomb. It turned him into a big green galloot, a monster even scarier and stronger than the Thing. He was like some big child, mentally. But just about nothing could stop him, and when the soldiers saw him, one of them called him "the Hulk". The name stuck. The Hulk changed back to Banner, and nobody back then knew they were one and the same. But whenever Bruce got really stressed or excited, it triggered a reaction in him that would turn him into the Hulk, and whenever the Hulk either calmed down or got stressed beyond even his capacities, he turned into Bruce Banner. He was a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in real life, but he looked more like Frankenstein's monster. 

Only he was stronger than Frankenstein's monster. He was just about the strongest thing on Earth. He wasn't really a villain, but nobody, including himself, could control him. 

I met him several times. As strong as I was, I was nothing to him. The Hulk was one of the scariest creatures I ever ran across. Imagine yourself holding two big gallon jugs full of nitroglycerine, balancing on a barrel full of cobras, with some dude shooting a .357 Magnum at you at point-blank range, and the fires of Hell below you. The Hulk is scarier than that. For a time, whenever I had a nightmare, it was colored green. 

Now, here's where I come into the picture. 

I was born in 1946, just after the War. My parents, your great-grandparents, were Richard and Mary Parker. My dad was a secret agent of the United States government, but I didn't know that. All I knew then was that he was a businessman, and he and mom were gone a lot of the time. I got left with my aunt May and uncle Ben a lot. They were a lot older than my folks, but I loved them, too. Which was good, in a way, because when I was three years old, my parents died. They'd been infiltrating the spy ring of a Commie who was imitating the Red Skull, and he found out and had their plane sabotaged. I didn't learn all this till '69. I hardly knew any of it back then. 

Does this sound weird to you? It's true. Every bit of it is true. Here. Let me show you. 

Hah. Didn't think I still had it in me, did you? Don't try this yourselves. My powers didn't pass down to you or your parents. You can't stand on the ceiling in your sock feet. 

Now then. I'm not as spry as I used to be, but I can still crawl a wall when I want to. Don't interrupt yet, youngster, unless you need to go to the john. You don't, do you? Okay. Let me go on with the story. 

As a boy, I wasn't nearly the strongest guy in class...got picked on a lot, and not just because I wore glasses. I was the smartest kid in school, and I wasn't smart enough to keep it to myself. That meant I got beat up a lot after class, when I was young. By the time I'd gotten into high school, I didn't get beat up so much. They'd kinda gotten tired of it. But I didn't get any dates, and I managed to lose myself in the study of chemistry. I knew as much, or more, about that, than my teacher, Mr. Warren. I got good grades, and I was working on being valdectorian. 

But I think I would have traded that in for just one day of being Flash Thompson. 

He was the local quarterback, football hero, and all that. He had girls hanging off of him like he was James Bond crossed with Burt Lancaster. You don't know who Burt is? Trust me, he could get girls. Flash never beat me up too much, but he poked fun at me a lot. And I couldn't do a thing about it for a long time. Not if I wanted to keep wearing my face on the front of my head. 

Anyway...let's skip all that. The most important day of my life happened when I was in my sophomore year, in 1962. I still remember it like it was flash-frozen in time. Flash...guess his name just keeps popping up in my mind. 

I wanted to go to the General Dynamics science exhibit. I asked a girl if she'd go there with me, but she said no, and latched onto Flash as he passed by. I asked just about everybody within five feet, and their response was pretty much, "Get lost, bookworm." Just be prepared for high school. Nobody will like you unless you do sports, and nobody will like you afterward if you did them. 

So I went by myself, lonesome as always. They were giving a demonstration of how radiation could be transmitted through space. I was standing really close...too close, as it turned out. Because when they turned on the juice and the alpha through gammas started travelling between the poles, that was the moment some big old spider chose to walk down from the ceiling, spinning a web in front of him. He got right in the path of the ray, and zap. 

He fell right on my hand. This one here. See? Bit me. No, it wasn't a poisonous spider. But he had been irradiated. And now, in a way, so had I. 

I was feeling strange, woozy. I stumbled out of the exhibit hall and tried to get some fresh air. It was like I had double vision for a few minutes. Some strange new elements were being downloaded into my bloodstream, and I didn't have any idea what I was about to become. I stepped off a curb, darn near in front of a car that was coming by. He honked the horn, I turned around and saw him, and I jumped. 

I jumped a good twelve feet up in the air, and landed against the side of a building, and stuck there. 

Like a human spider. 

I couldn't believe it. If there'd been anybody on that side street at the time, I'd have probably been on the front page of the Post or the Times or the Daily Bugle. And I really didn't know what I was supposed to do. I mean, there I was, on the second story of a building wall, with my hands sticking to it like they were coated in super-glue. Didn't seem to be anything I could do except climb. So I did. 

I climbed all the way to the top of the building. When I got to the roof, I reached out for a pipe to steady myself, and I bent it all to heck when I grabbed it. By that time, my head was pretty clear, so I knew this wasn't a dream. I'd been hoping it was. But sure enough, that spider had passed on its abilities to me, proportionately. I was strong. Stronger than any normal human. I could climb, using my feet and hands to stick to the surfaces of things. I could leap farther than an Olympics high- or broad-jumper. I was faster, too. On top of all that, I had a strange, sixth sense that'd start tingling whenever I was in danger, or when something just wasn't kosher. I called it my Spider Sense. 

Now don't get ahead of me, son. You know who I was, now. But let me tell it my own way. All right? Good. Be polite like your sister, and listen. 

I'd been studying polymers and adhesives, so I was able to rig up a couple of things I could put around my wrists and use to make a "spider's web". It was stickier than flypaper and strong as steel. In about an hour, it'd evaporate. I mean, I was a darned good chemist. 

I was just about as good a costume designer, too, because I went out, bought some material, and whipped me up a uniform inside of a week. I put in one-way mirrors for eye lenses, and the thing covered my whole body. I made it with a web design all over the red parts. Then I went to a talent agent, showed him what I could do, and told him I was Spider-Man. 

Inside of two weeks after that, I was on the Ed Sullivan Show. 

Yeah, you know the bit. They show my stint every time they do one of those retrospectives. Ed was the one who gave me my tagline, when he said, "And now, on our stage, let's give a big welcome to...the amazing Spider-Man!" I think a couple of guys twirling discs on sticks or a singer came on after me, and I was hard to follow. 

Back then, I didn't have any dreams of being a hero. I was going to be a performer. Be on TV, make a lot of money, help out aunt May and uncle Ben, and help me, too. I was booked for a few more TV appearances, and let me tell you, it was hard keeping it a secret from both of them! 

Then something else happened. 

A security guard in one of the buildings where I'd just taped a bit was chasing some guy down the hall towards the elevators. The guy passed right in front of me. I could've tripped him, could have caught him, but I didn't. I figured I didn't need to get involved. So the guy got to the elevators and managed to get the doors shut before the guard could get to him, and he got away. He had a few choice words for me, but I blew him off and left. 

Not long after that, I came home, and there was a cop car in front of my house in Forest Hills. A policeman caught me before I could go in. He told me...he told me that my uncle Ben had been murdered. A burglar had gotten into our house. We didn't know it, but some gangster from the '30's was supposed to have stashed a lot of money inside before Elliot Ness took him down. That was what he was looking for, but he didn't find it. Uncle Ben surprised him. 

He shot uncle Ben. 

Right in front of aunt May. He shot him. 

I didn't know what I was doing next. I just knew what I had to do. Once I heard the address of the warehouse that rat was holded up in, I ran upstairs, tore my clothes off, and changed... 

...into Spider-Man. 

The cops were outside the warehouse, trying to wait him out. He had a gun. I didn't much give a rap for that. I busted into the place through the roof, crawled down towards him head-first...don't think the sight of a guy in a costume coming at you like that doesn't scare you. It did him, and a lot of other hoods I've tried it on. 

I gummed up his gun hand with my web, and then I hit him. It only took one hit. I pulled it some to keep from killing him, but I didn't pull it anymore than I had to. He went out like a sack of flour. I grabbed him by the coat to keep him from going to the floor, and that's when I finally got a good look at his face. 

It was...it was the man who had been chased by the guard. The man who I didn't stop, a day before. 

If I had, uncle Ben wouldn't have died like that. And I still would have been a TV star. 

Instead, I decided to be a super-hero, like the Fantastic Four, if I could cut it. If I could take down other hoods before they could hurt people, like my uncle, or if I could at least catch 'em and hand 'em over to the cops, well, it might make up in some way for what I hadn't done. So that's what I did. 

A day or two after that I stumbled on a quote from Thomas Jefferson. "With great power comes great responsibility." Yeah, that's the one you've seen carved on our mantelpiece. That's why I had it done. So now I had the power, and I had the responsibility. And it was my responsibility to use the power well. 

What's that? You didn't know you were related to somebody that used to be famous? Don't worry. I didn't get paid much for it. 

I could gas around all night about what I used to be, who I used to fight, all the other guys in the long underwear suits I met. I met a lot of 'em. 

But I've got to tell you about those guys, so that you'll know something of what I'm talking about. 

And then I've got to tell you about the Fire. 

To be continued...   
  



	2. Part 2:  Sparks Fly

  
FIRE! 

A Tale of the Marvel Universe 

by DarkMark 

Part 2 

All right. I've just told you about what happened that first year...most of it, anyway. The Fantastic Four. The Hulk. Dr. Doom. Sub-Mariner. Me. But there were other heroes, and other villains. And if people thought the whole super-hero thing was going to fade out after a year or so, 1963 proved 'em wrong. 

There were a few other independent heroes by that year. Two of 'em worked together. They were Ant-Man and the Wasp. Like me, they had insect-type names. Unlike me, they were insect-sized. Ant-Man was Henry Pym, a biochemist whose first wife had escaped from behind the Iron Curtain. That was what we called the division between Commieland and the Free World. The Pyms were dumb enough to go back on a visit to her homeland. She thought nobody would recognize her. She was wrong. She got abducted by KGB guys, and everyone thought they killed her. Pym got bashed over the head, woke up in the American embassy, and swore to track down the guys that got her. 

He couldn't do it. He went back home and worked on his projects: a shrinking gas, and a device to communicate with insects, specifically ants. 

By the time some Russian agents broke into the place where he and some others were working on something else, he'd already tried the shrinking serum, found out it worked, and had a really hairy time of it inside an ant hill. Since then, he'd perfected the helmet that let him talk to ants, and made a steel-mesh costume to protect himself from stings and bites. At that size, you could bet those things might've been fatal. 

As it was, he turned into Ant-Man, and rallied an army of ants to help him take down the Commies. Oh, so that sounds funny to you, youngster? Suppose I take you out and sit you in the middle of an ant bed. And those critters won't even be under intelligent direction, the way Pym's were. Now you get it? If you see a wave of those little buggers crawling across the floor at you, surging up your legs, stinging the hell out of you all the way...yeah, you get the picture. 

So Ant-Man was getting back at the Reds with red ants, and black ones, too...he had to keep 'em separate, 'cause they made war on each other. He decided to turn into a part-time super-hero. Fought some bad guys. Later on, he met with a girl named Janet Van Dyne, whose dad was a scientist. He got killed by an alien he'd attracted to Earth. Jan went to Hank Pym for help. He told her he was the Ant-Man, gave her a hormone injection that let her sprout wings and antennae when she shrunk, and turned her into the Wasp. They got the alien, and they went on to fight a bunch of other bad guys. Later on, Hank Pym found out an overdose of the gas he used to enlarge himself to normal could turn him into a giant, so he called himself Giant-Man when he did that. 

He had a bunch of other names over the years, and a bunch of other costumes. Called himself Goliath, and then Yellowjacket. I know it's confusing, youngsters, but by '72 he was back to being Ant-Man. The Wasp just stayed the Wasp, and they got married in '69. It was a long time before I could get used to her. Spiders 'n' wasps, you know...it just was. 

Then there was Thor. I mean, you talk about impressive. This guy was the ne plus ultraissimo of super-heroes. He was so strong, every time he associated with us, it must've been like slumming. Thor was a real-live Norse god. The god of thunder. I mean, I didn't believe it at first, but he convinced me after seeing him in action. He was built like Charles Atlas would've fantasized about being, long blonde hair, winged steel helmet, red cape, blue suit, big yellow boots, plus a hammer that could smash down a mountain when he threw it. He was every bit as strong as the Hulk, but he was a good guy, and that was lucky for us, believe me. 

I learned a long time afterward what some of his backstory was. Evidently his dad, who was called Odin and was the head honcho in Asgard, where the Norse gods lived, decided he needed a lesson one day. Don't ask me what for, maybe he just interrupted too much, like you, sonnyboy. And don't you giggle too much, darling, or I'll take you with me next time I walk across the ceiling. 

Now, then: evidently Odin made Thor into a regular human guy, and he stayed that way until he went to Norway one time, met some aliens--yeah, there were a lot of aliens back then. Aliens, supervillains, and Commies. Just couldn't have gotten along without 'em. The trinity, we used to call 'em. Anyway, he got chased by some aliens, found something that turned into Thor's hammer and turned him into Thor, and he ended up chasing the aliens away. Then he came back to the States and set up shop as a super-hero. This kind of attracted some other business, because his half-brother Loki, who was the god of evil, decided to come down here and harass him. Thor kind of divided his time between Earth and Asgard. Everytime he got bored fighting one kind of bad guy, he switched places and fought another kind. It was real convienient, especially since all he had to do to travel was swing his hammer a certain way. 

Then there was Iron Man. I never really got all the straight skinny on him. He was the bodyguard of Tony Stark, and he wore mechanized armor full of weapons and boot-jets and repulsor rays from his hands and all sorts of other stuff. When he had the armor on, he was powerful enough to trade punches with the Hulk, as long as he didn't take too many himself. Evidently he had something to do with Stark when the guy went to the Nam in early '63 to test some weapons. Stark tripped over a boobytrap, took some grenade shrapnel in the chest, and got captured and patched up by the Viet Cong. They wanted him to build weapons for them. 

Instead, he built the armor, gave it to a guy who'd been taken prisoner with him, and turned the guy into Iron Man. They got out of Nam together, after they killed the Commie that took 'em prisoner. Then, just like Thor, Iron Man started fighting bad guys in the States. A lot of 'em were Reds, and no wonder. Stark paid him to be his bodyguard, and he did a good job of it, I'd say. 

All four of them got together one day to fight the Hulk, who'd been framed up by Loki. That's Thor's bad-guy brother, remember? He wanted to lure Thor back to Asgard for a rematch. Well, once things got sorted out, the five of 'em decided to start a team, and called themselves the Avengers. They never stayed still very long...the Hulk cut out pretty soon afterward...but they were the Big Guns as far as superheroes went. Thanks to Thor and Iron Man and a few others, they made other super-teams look anemic. 

I got invited to join 'em a few years later. I turned 'em down. Why? It's a long story, kids. Remind me to tell you, someday. 

The same month the Avengers were formed, another group of heroes showed up. Only this team wasn't a bunch of independent operators coming together. We had no idea these guys even existed before this, and here were five of them, plus one guy behind the scenes. What brought it about was a really tough bad guy named Magneto. He was what you called a mutant, with inborn super-powers...his was magnetic force. All by himself, he took a missle base over. But these five teenagers in black and yellow costumes turned up, called themselves the X-Men, and asked to get a crack at him. They drove him off, which was pretty fitting, 'cause they were mutants, too. 

Back then, the X-Men were made up of Cyclops, the Angel, Iceman, the Beast, and Marvel Girl. The guy who bossed 'em was a Daddy Warbucks type called Professor X. He was a mutant, and a telepath. The X-Men didn't go in much for solo stuff, they worked as a team. They were kind of like in-training heroes. Mostly, they fought mutants. They kept things in-house like that for awhile. Yes, I met them. I met everybody, youngster. 

There was also a guy called Dr. Strange. We didn't know much about him. He didn't advertise. He didn't fight super-villains. He was a magician. I met him first when I got involved in a case against this wizard called Xandu, and...well, it was a pretty creepy case. Doc and I took the guy down, and we did pretty well together. But we didn't associate much afterwards, which was fine by me. Strange gave me the creeps. 

And that's the way it was, back in '63. There were lots of heroes, and lots of villains to fight 'em. The Fantastic Four even got to the moon. They tied with Ivan Kragoff, which didn't please the government very much. Reed wouldn't turn over his spacecraft design to the government, so they had to keep on with their own project to get to the moon. They didn't manage it till 1969. 

But, heck. We lived for the battles. All of us did. We fought crooks and super-villains and Commies and guys from outer space. We all lived in New York City, except for the Hulk, and we all met each other at one time or another. We thought it could go on forever. 

We thought there was nothing a super-hero couldn't handle. 

Wrong. 

On November 22nd of that year, President Kennedy, John F. Kennedy, made that trip to Dallas, Texas, to drum up some votes. I'd never met him, but Iron Man and some of the others had. I was in school when we heard the news over the PA system. 

They told us that he'd just been shot. 

Then we found out he'd been killed. 

How could something happen to him in Dallas? 

There weren't any super-heroes down there to protect him. 

There weren't any super-villains down there we needed to protect him from. 

There wasn't any battle, even. Just some shots one day, and one shot a day later. 

The guy who did it wasn't even much of a Commie. The Russians wouldn't even have thought of using a loser like him. He wasn't the Crimson Dynamo or the Destroyer or the Radioactive Man or the Red Ghost. He was just a little punk in a lousy job who'd managed to buy himself a rifle. 

And he killed President Kennedy. 

There wasn't anything we could do about it. 

I didn't exactly have phone numbers of the other guys in the business. A lot of them had secret identities, just like me. But I talked with 'em later, and we all pretty much had the same reaction. It was as if we'd betrayed our trust, somehow. Even though there wasn't anything, anything at all, we could have done about it. 

We had all those powers. We could change the weather, knock down brick walls, fly, stretch ourselves, turn invisible, walk up walls, change our size, do magic...and none of it was any good against that. 

Iron Man was really hurt, because, like I said, he'd met Kennedy personally, with Stark. The X-Men were shaken, because they were mutants, they were always afraid that normal people would turn on them, and something like this seemed to yank a lot more solid ground out from under them. 

For a week or two, there wasn't much heroing around New York. 

Then the super-villains started showing up again, like Sub-Mariner, the Hulk--he was a bad guy again--the Mole Man, and, in my case, the Living Brain. We had to saddle up and do our numbers. It was kind of like therapy. We got back into the groove, but we all knew the truth from then on: that there would be some things we just couldn't handle. 

Some cases in which power wouldn't be enough. 

Not long after the assassination, someone seemed to come back from the dead. It was like an exchange. This time, we got Captain America. The real Captain America, not any of the substitutes who'd worn his costume in the late Forties and Fifties. Cap had been frozen in an iceberg since 1945, and the Avengers found him, thawed him out, and brought him back to America. Cops cried at the sight of him when he showed up in New York. We thought he'd been gone for ten years. It turned out to be almost twenty. 

Cap became an Avenger in short order. If there's anybody that symbolized the good in America more than him, I've never met him. But there was something else about him. Two things, actually. 

First, he'd failed to save his partner, Bucky, from getting killed. That happened in the same incident that got Cap frozen. Eventually, Cap tracked down the Nazi responsible for it, and made him pay for it. But he never really got over it. There was some part of Cap that never stopped living in World War II, before Bucky's death, and that same part wouldn't let him get close enough to somebody who might get killed the same way. 

Second, he really had a burden on his shoulders with the American symbol thing. Literally, Cap was unable to accept himself messing up. Because if Captain America was seen screwing up, doing anything badly, blowing a mission, it would almost be seen as America screwing up...that's not the way I thought, but it was the way Cap saw it. So he held himself to impossible standards. And he almost always met them. Almost. He was the best man to have on your side at any time. But I never envied him. Not a single day. 

Then there was Daredevil. Ol' Hornhead showed up about a month after Cap returned. He was a loner super-hero, like me. He didn't seem to have any powers, but he could duke it out with the best of 'em. He could do acrobatic tricks like nobody's business, and he did them without benefit of spider-powers or the Beast's mutant abilities. We first met up when a creep called the Ringmaster blew into town, and he helped get me out of a hypnotic spell. We worked together a few times after that. If I'd ever wanted a steady partner, DD would have been my first choice. 

Am I boring you kids yet? Well, let me tell you something without super-heroes. It happened that summer. 

Two U.S. destroyers in Viet Nam were fired upon. We're not sure by whom, but it's a pretty good guess it was the North Vietnamese. We sunk two North Viet PT boats and bombed their bases. Lyndon Johnson was president by that time. He asked the Congress to give him power to escalate the war, our participation in it. They did, with maybe one dissenting vote. 

We were into the Sixties, kids. For real. 

Do you still want to hear about super-heroes? There weren't too many new ones after that, for awhile. 

Three old super-villains saw the light, became heroes, and signed up as new Avengers when the old guard left. They were Hawkeye, Quicksilver, and the Scarlet Witch. You didn't know they'd been bad guys? Read your history books. 

Then there was SHIELD. I bring them up because a lot of us super-types had dealings with them. They were a worldwide spy organization based in America, the Supreme Headquarters for International Espionage and Law-enforcement Divisions. They weren't super-heroes, just some secret agency run by a World War II vet named Nick Fury. They fought a bunch of bad guys called Hydra. Hydra agents wore costumes, so maybe they were super-villains...I don't know. 

That was how we occupied our time. In the Nam, they had other ways of doing things...killing, and getting killed, and hearing the leaders back in the States talk about light at the end of the tunnel. The problem was that nobody knew how long that tunnel went. Or how far down. 

I was draft bait back then, but I didn't have to go. I was lucky. Some of my friends, including Flash Thompson, weren't. Yeah, Flash and I more or less patched things up afterward. Not the best of friends, but not really enemies. So. 

Then came the Fire. 

It started, near as I can remember, back in '65. 

In Watts, black men vented their frustration with a white system. Remember, integration hadn't gotten very far then, and for a lot of people, it was just too little, too late. Most of us white people had no idea what a black man's life was like. Now, we were getting a forcible education. 

They burned. They burned Watts. 

People rioted. People got shot. It was the opening act... 

The fire...the fire. 

Watts was a long way from New York City. Some of the heroes wanted to go down there and offer their services to the cops. I wasn't one of them, since I was local, not national. But that very week, Mayor John Lindsay got in touch with the Avengers, the Fantastic Four, and even the X-Men. That last he had to go through the FBI to do, because the X'ers had some agency connections. But he got Captain America, Thor, Reed Richards, the Thing, Iron Man, and Cyclops into his office, and he laid down the law. 

The Feds said that they didn't want any super-hero involvement in Watts, or other political situations. 

The authorities were having a hard enough time keeping things contained as it was. All super-heroes at the time were white. They had enough ties to government as it was...some of them had to, in order to keep operating...and the guys in charge thought that it'd look like Uncle Sam was unleashing a bunch of super-powered running dogs on the rioters, if they got involved. 

The guys couldn't believe it. Thor protested that he could stop the burning just by stamping his hammer enough times. But Reed Richards told him that'd only work for so long. Then Reed asked what'd happen if the dissent spread to New York City. 

Hizzoner said that if and when it happened, they'd rely on New York's Finest to keep order. The heroes were supposed to take care of the super-villains, Lindsay said. The city government, and the cops, would take care of the city. 

There wasn't a lot more they could say. Not if they wanted to stay in good with the government, and, considering our vigilante status, that was always a tricky thing. So they left, and they let the rest of the heroic community know what had gone down. Some of 'em even thought that the Puppet Master had gotten to the mayor, but that wasn't the case. I heard about it from a story in the Daily Bugle. 

I hadn't planned on getting involved in California, like I said. But now it seemed like even my hands were tied...and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. Even Thor couldn't fight City Hall. 

So we did our jobs. There were always super-villains to fight, and we fought them. We could save the world on a regular basis. 

But we couldn't do much of anything to save America. 

It would have to save itself. 

A lot of change came down under Lyndon Johnson, or despite him. The Sixties were like one big pressure cooker. If you were young, you were facing the draft...facing Viet Nam. If you were nonwhite, you were starting to resist a system that was keeping you under. If you were white, you were threatened by those same resistors. There were people talking about making violent revolution against the government, overthrowing it. There were some people who were more than talking about it. 

All over the nation, the fire spread. More cities went up in flames. More protests against the War, a lot of 'em getting violent...on both sides. More kids, barely out of high school, getting cut down like unripe wheat in Nam. Revolutionary talk, revolutionary action. Mainstream American kids, getting into drugs on a large scale for the first time. 

All of this, within ten years of Eisenhower. 

All over the nation, people wondering if the country could just hold together...and not at all certain that it could. 

Killing was going on everywhere. But we only seemed to notice it when the victims had familiar names. Martin Luther King, Bobby Kennedy...they were just the most visible ones. 

The fire. The fire claimed them all. 

How could this be happening in America, we wondered? 

How long would there be an America, we wondered? 

How long would the Fire burn? 

Dick Nixon got elected on a pledge to bring America together again. He at least kept things running, dampened a few flames here and there, but the stuff kept smouldering. He said he had a secret plan to get us out of the war, and it must've been some secret. Four years of his administration, and we were still in it. 

That's talking about 1972. Let me backtrack a bit. 

There were a few more heroes by that time. The Inhumans, the Black Panther, the Vision, the Black Knight, the Black Widow, and some that even didn't have the word "black" in their names. The only one who was really black was the Panther, who was an African king. He joined the Avengers. I won't run down all of these guys right now, but I will tell you that somebody else appeared in 1966. 

He was the Silver Surfer. 

The Surfer was a guy from another world. He was called the Silver Surfer because he was coated all over with some flexible metallic substance that looked like silver, and because he rode a flying surfboard. That's right, a flying surfboard. He had the power to do just about anything he wanted, with this Power Cosmic that Galactus had given him. Yes, that Galactus, the one who came to Earth in 1966 and wanted to eat it. The Surfer was Galactus's herald, his advance man. When he came to Earth, the Surfer got convinced that his boss was really going to do a terrible thing, and he joined with the Fantastic Four to stop him from doing it. They managed it, but Galactus sentenced the Surfer to be bound to Earth for going against him. Since the Surfer came from a really peaceful and humane planet, from what I hear, and since he'd been flying all over the universe looking for planets for Galactus to eat, this was very much like being in prison. Mostly, he tried to stay out of human affairs. Sometimes he couldn't, and he ended up doing super-hero stuff. 

Yes, I met him. I told you. I've met everybody. 

I haven't told you about many of the super-villains, because there just were too many of them. I had my group of waltzing partners...Doc Ock, the Sandman, Electro, Mysterio, the Kingpin, all the rest. There were lots of others, tons of 'em every month. Mostly old faces, some new ones every time around. 

My number one enemy, even though I didn't fight him as much as I did some of the others, was called the Green Goblin. 

He wore a green and purple suit that made him sort of look like a goblin, he had gimmicky weapons built into his suit or stowed in his carrying pouch, and he rode a bat-glider that was jet-propelled. For the longest time, I didn't know who he was. But he found out who I was, the only one of my baddies that ever did. And I found out who he was. He was the father of one of my friends, Harry Osborn. His name was Norman Osborn. He caught me one night and he was planning on doing me in. He unmasked before me, told me all the whys and wherefores of his life. But I broke free, and during the fight, he took an electrical shock that gave him amnesia. He forgot all about his Goblin identity. After that, he was a straight-up guy, and my friend. 

Except for three other times, when he remembered he was the Goblin again, and I had to fight him. 

Back in 1970, I got out of college. So did the girl I loved, and we got married. That was Gwen and me, and her dad, Captain George Stacy, who had been a cop, got to give her away. Aunt May was there to see the wedding. So were Flash, and Harry, and Mr. Osborn, and Betty Brant, and a lot of other folks I knew. But no super-heroes. I was kinda glad of that. I got into grad school, started making ends meet as a teaching assistant and taking photos for J. Jonah Jameson down at the Daily Bugle...I'd been doing that since '63...and Gwen started learning how to be a fashion designer while doing some modelling. No, I will not show you the photos! You're too young yet. 

But Captain Stacy died. He...well, he got killed during a fight I had with Dr. Octopus. I tried to save him, but I couldn't manage it. He let me know...his last words to me...he let me know that he knew Spider-Man was really Peter Parker. 

Then we buried him. That wasn't a month after the wedding. 

I had to tell Gwen about my secret, then. I wasn't sure how she'd take it. She left me for a few days, to get her head together, she said, and I was afraid it'd take her forever. But she was back after four days. She said that she'd made the vows, in sickness or in health, for richer or for poorer, and she figured that also covered whether I was Spider-Man or not. So we stayed together. And I was...and I was very glad. 

In '71, George was born. I'd done an interview with Stark Industries by that time. I wanted to go into their chemical division. 

By that time, most of us who were in the hero business had been in it for over eight years. We were getting tired...really tired. Every month, the same old thing...fight a villain, try to keep him from killing you, knowing that it wasn't helping keep the country from falling apart. And what would happen to the world, if America really did fall apart? 

We didn't know it, but there was one guy who seemed to have a clue. 

Back in '70, Iron Man fought a villain...a one-timer, or so we thought. He had armor a bit like ol' Shellhead's, only he could throw fireblasts from his hands. He called himself Firebrand. The thing that made him stand out a bit is that he wasn't like other villains. He wasn't out to steal big bucks or take over the world. 

He was a revolutionary. He wanted to overthrow the government, tear down the Establishment, the whole nine yards. He appeared once, on the side of some black militants. He threw as much invective and firey oratory as he did flame-bursts. Iron Man fought him, and he disappeared. 

At least, as far as we knew. 

But he knew a lot more than we did. 

He knew about the Fire. 

To be continued...   



	3. Part 3:  Competitors

FIRE! 

A Tale of the Marvel Universe 

by DarkMark 

Part 3 

Gary Gilbert figured he was getting all too comfortable in a three-piece suit. But, after all, that was the uniform he wore now. Not the one of red and yellow-painted metal. You couldn't walk into a boardroom in that and be very convincing. 

He shifted through a handful of reports as he walked into the office of his father. Simon Gilbert looked up from his desk. The old man'd been giving dictation to his secretary. Gary figured he gave her something else on the side, too, or wherever he could get it. But he only smiled briefly at the 50ish businessman in the blue suit. "Hi, Dad." 

"Susan, we wish to be alone," said Simon, gently. The blonde secretary in the short green dress took up her steno pad and walked. She gave Gary an appraising gaze as she went past. He looked her over coolly and decided that it wasn't worth it, right now. 

"So," Simon said, putting his elbows on his desk and knocking his fists together idly. "What've you got for me?" 

"Oh," said Gary, moving over to the laminated surface of the desk, "good tidings and joy. Take a look at these." He dumped the reports on Simon's desk. The old man glommed through the item on top. 

"My God, Stark's share is shrinking!" 

"What did you expect it to do?" Gary asked, softly, hands in the pockets of his tailored pants. "He's just given up weapons manufacturing. That was his bread and butter. He's trying to retool for domestic industry, space exploration, and all that. But that'll take time. Time we've got, time he hasn't." Gary shrugged. 

Simon looked up. "All because of a bunch of protesters." 

"All because Stark is sick of the war he got wounded in," said Gary. "And we pick up the business he leaves." 

Simon smiled, widely. "You know, son, two very smart things happened within the last two years. One: you quit being a leftie. Two: you persuaded me to leave Stark and start up our own company. And to think, these ideas came from you." 

Gary chuckled. "Hey, you can't eat a revolution. We've been through all that." 

"Yeah. You came to your senses." 

"I just woke up and smelled the money in the air," Gary said. "If it was that close, I had to find a way to reach out for it. I'd say we did, wouldn't you, Dad?" 

Simon sat the report down and looked at his son with pride. "I'd say you did an exceptional job. I would never have imagined you wanting to go into weapons production." 

"We have enemies, Dad. Just like everybody else." 

"True. Even ones who aren't named Stark." Gilbert paused. "So. What do you foresee, for both of us?" 

Gary leaned back against a Formica chair, his arms folded. "We become very, very rich. We leave Stark's stock prices to twist slowly, slowly in the wind. In ten years there won't even be a Stark Enterprises." 

"Don't discount him. Stark is tough." 

"Yeah. But he's worn down. You know the buzz, Dad. He's getting sick of the entire company." 

"The buzz is one thing. Reality is another. I never confuse the two, son." 

"No," said Gary, quietly. "Never lose sight of reality. Anything else before I leave?" 

Simon Gilbert smiled. "Only that you've made me very, very proud, son. More than you can ever imagine." 

Gary smiled back and said, "You ain't seen nothin' yet, Dad." 

For a moment, Simon wanted to question his judgment. He saw something in the kid's eyes that he didn't like. But maybe it was just his tiger-instinct kicking in at the prospect of dismembering Stark's company. Yeah. That had to be it. 

He dismissed Gary with a wave of his hand, watched him go out the door, and then turned back to the morning's paperwork. 

-M- 

Tony Stark threw his Iron Man helmet at the wall. It rebounded with a clang, and Stark was glad he had the walls reinforced and soundproofed. 

"Damn!" The curse exploded from him as he crashed his red-metal gloves against his chestplate. He wondered if he could, with these mechanized fingers, if he could rip the thing to pieces. For ages, he had not dared to take it off. It had been the only thing that kept him alive. 

Now, his heart had been repaired with artificial tissue and it seemed that the only thing the Iron Man suit was good for was for getting other people dead. 

He could take it all the way back to Professor Yinsen, who had helped him make the first Iron Man armor. He could follow it through Drexel Cord, his daughter Janice, the Mandarin's lover Mei-Ling, Vincent Sandhurst, the Minotaur, Blaine Ordway, that idiot Monster-Master, that alien the Foreman, the White Dragon, probably others he didn't even remember. Some villains, some friends, one, Janice, his lover. 

But the one he remembered most was the one who had died most recently: Kevin O'Brien, the Guardsman. 

Kevin. A friend, an employee. A man he'd trusted with his life. A man who'd been driven insane by the Guardsman armor he'd worn, who had turned on Iron Man in battle during a student protest of Stark Industries for its manufacture of weapons for the Vietnam War. 

A man who had died. 

Stark stood in his inner office, breathing heavily, Iron Man in all but his head. 

God, he was so tired... 

He tried to tell himself it was a delayed reaction from that Skrull-Kree War and the great battle in Olympus, both with the Avengers. But he couldn't convince himself. He had never been good at self-lying. 

Stark poured himself a paper cup of water from the dispenser, drank it, opened a cabinet along the wall, took out a bottle of Seagram's, filled the same cup with it, and threw it down. It was, thankfully, better than the water. He drank another one for dessert. Then he dragged the office chair over, was glad it was reinforced with the same steel that lined the walls, and sat down, roughly. The jointed metal of his trunks did not harm its surface. 

He looked at the empty cup in his hand. "Oh, papa," he mused. "Do you think your only son has become an alcoholic?" 

An exec with a drinking problem? Hell, that was allowable. About 25 per cent of the CEO's he knew had a sometime or fulltime problem with their liquor. But a boozehound super-hero? No, that wasn't allowable. Not ever. 

But while he was half-in, half-out of costume, perhaps it was okay. 

He needed the stuff now. Kevin's death, the protestors, the decision to take Stark Industries out of the war business, the lurching stock quotes...all of it. 

He'd even asked Marianne Rodgers to marry him, and she'd said yes. But he hadn't called her in a week. He was wondering if 

(say it) 

he should have asked her in the first place. Sooner or later she'd have to know about the other man she was marrying. The one he kept mostly in the attache case. 

With the armor in it, that damn thing was heavy. You could probably knock a man in the head with it and kill him. James Bond should have the weaponry he carried around in that little case. But he probably wouldn't do any better with it than Tony Stark had. 

What had Tony Stark done? 

He had lost both parents to death, for one thing. 

Then he had taken over Howard Stark's company, used his own inventive genius and talent for organization, and tripled it within five years. It was the midst of the Cold War, and contracts from Uncle Sam were coming in like waves on a Carribean shore. He could design just about anything that the government wanted with which to kill Commies. And nobody--nobody--ever called him dirty names about it. Not back then. 

On his off-hours, he raced fast cars as a hobby, and chased faster women. Didn't have to chase the latter too far, either. Just had to make new ways of getting rid of them once they had served their purpose. Jim Aubrey had taken pointers from him in that department. Falling in love? Hell, yes. He'd done that, and gotten hurt by it when his father and Creighton McCall had pulled him and Meredith, and their hearts, apart. 

And it didn't get any better when he lost Pepper Potts, years later, to Happy, although he admitted he probably never had her and she was better off with Hap Hogan, anyway. Or when a later, more intense love, the damned love of his life, Janice Cord, had been unlucky enough to be there in the middle of a three-way battle between Iron Man, the Crimson Dynamo, and Titanium Man, and had gotten killed. 

Now, there was Marianne. 

Was she next on the list? 

He looked at the helmet, lying sideways on the floor, nudging the wall of his office. 

Must there be an Iron Man? 

The question seemed so much clearer in 1963. Yes, there absolutely had to be an Iron Man. To avenge the Vietnamese scientist who had helped him create the armor. To fight the Communists and their super-powered agents. To be an Avenger, and help save the world. 

But now, he wasn't sure it was a world he wanted to save anymore. 

Ten years. Ten years, and what had he gotten? 

A company starting to spiral down, and a bunch of enemies in union suits that wanted to kill him. 

Correction: that wanted to kill Iron Man. 

On the other hand, there was an offer somebody had made a few weeks back. At first, he'd scoffed at it. Barely brought himself to tell Miss Greer to send them a polite refusal. But now...well, things might just be changed. 

Things always changed. It was time to change them for the better. 

Stark wheeled himself back to his desk and pressed an intercom button. "Yes, sir?" came Miss Greer's voice. 

"Jen, I'd like you to contact someone for me, keep it confidential," he said, in his best executive tone. 

"Oh, absolutely, Mr. Stark," she said. 

He took a deep breath, let it out, and continued. "Contact Noah Dietrich. Tell him...tell him I'd like to talk to him about Mr. Hughes's offer." 

There was a pause before Jennifer Greer said, "Are you sure, Mr. Stark?" 

"I'm sure, Jen. I'm sure. Do it." 

"Yes, sir." 

Tony Stark got up, poured himself half a cup of Seagram's, drank it, crumpled the cup, and threw it in the wastebasket. Then he started to get out of the suit. 

He hoped he wouldn't ever have to put it on again. 

-M- 

Thor looked down upon the borough of Manhattan from the top of a tall building and wondered, with a bit of Don Blake's mind, if he and the woman clasped in his left arm would interfere with television transmissions. 

Sif rested her hand on his chest, easily, and lay her head on his massive shoulder. "Prithee, beloved, tell me what thou thinkest at this moment," she said. "When thou looketh upon this isle-city,what dost thou think?" 

"I think," said Thor, slowly, "of the millions of people whose fate oft rests on that shoulder thou maketh your pillow. Though I would not they displace thee, no, not for a moment." 

The Asgardian woman smiled. "Reassuring, that is. Yet, be that all thou callest to mind?" 

He did not look at her. "What dost thou think? Indeed, Sif, tell me of what you envision, as you look." 

She sighed. "Thou must ask?" 

"I must." 

"I think of the golden spires of Asgard, from which thee and I were so recently thrust." 

"I also." 

"I think of our fellows, who were exiled here with us. Of Fandral, and Hogun, and Volstagg, and Balder, and Hildegarde. Even of Tana Nile, the Rigellian." 

"Aye. But only that?" 

"Nay," she admitted. "I think of Odin, who recently returned from Hela's realm. And of his wrath, at you calling his judgment cruel. And how he then proved it, by exiling us here." She disengaged herself from him, went to the edge of the building's roof, and sat down. 

In a moment, Thor joined her. "Verily, I think my woman a newmade telepath," he said. His hammer dangled from the thong on his wrist, but he did not let its head strike the building wall. 

Sif shook her head and smiled sadly. "One needs no mind-reading talents for such, my love. Only the shared experience of we six, late of Asgard. And one wonders when Odin's judgment will relent." 

"In time, Sif," said Thor, entwining the fingers of his left hand with hers. "In time, his wrathful judgment always ebbs. But only in his time." 

"Thor?" 

"Yes, milove?" 

"When we...when we once again seeth the halls of Asgard..." 

"Yes?" 

Sif clutched his hand more firmly. "Dost thou think t'would not be a good idea if we never left them again?" 

Thor turned his head away. "I cannot say such a thing, fair Sif. Thou knowest my dual nature, and the half of me which is entwined with this world. And with its people." 

"Don Blake hath been absent from Earth for months at a time," Sif pointed out. "And if half of thee be entwined with this world, canst thou forget the half which is bound with Odin's?" 

"Nay. No more than could I forget the heart which is bound with yours." 

Sif leaned over and kissed him. He returned the kiss, and embraced her with arms that could, with little effort, bring down the skyscraper on which they sat. 

After they broke the kiss, but kept the embrace, Sif whispered, "That thou wouldst allow us to leave this world, and be my husband. That thou wouldst do this, and more, for me, as I would for thee." 

Holding her more tightly, the god of thunder said, "Whether we return or not, 'tis up to Odin. But the other part, good Sif, one can..." 

"Yes, Thor?" 

"...One can promise." 

"Say it again, Thor. Say it so that mine ears can not mistake it for a trick of the wind, or a lie of the heart." 

He held her at arms length. "Thou wishest the Thunder God in marriage, Sif?" 

"As the night wishes for the dawning sun, Thor," she breathed. "As the wintry lands wish for the spring to wash them clean of white." 

"Then, such thou shalt have," said Thor. "And when Odin dost admit us to the Realm Eternal again, he will admit us as god and wife." 

"Oh," said Sif, and was unable to say more. She buried her head in Thor's shoulder and wet it and part of his cape with her tears. 

Thor stood, still holding her with one arm, and lifted his good right arm to the heavens. With a tried and practiced motion, he whirled Mjolnir at a certain pitch and velocity. When it had reached the proper speed, he threw it, holding onto the thong at its end. The two of them were towed behind the flying hammer like a kite's tail. Their capes billowed in the rushing wind. 

But Sif's mind held another metaphor than a kite's tail. She recalled seeing a wedding of mortals, in her short stay here, while passing by. The married couple had boarded their motorized chariot, which had a big JUST MARRIED sign on it, and taken off, trailing a string of tin cans behind them. 

The metaphor seemed as absurd as it was fitting. 

All Thor could think of was Odin. If they married without first gaining his permission, the gates to Asgard might be forever shut to them. 

Just so. 

Defying his father was, fortunately or not, getting to be a habit with him. 

-M- 

"By the Hosts of Hoggoth hoary,   
As the Flames of Faltine burn,   
Let the Orb of Agomotto   
To its housing now return." 

The glowing globe floated eerily away from its spot above the table and went to the container where it was normally hidden. The top of the Orb's housing closed over it again. Prince Namor breathed normally. Strange was an ally, but he never liked sorcery. 

"Well, Strange?" Namor entwined his hands before him, resting his elbows on the table. "Is there any reason for your summoning?" 

Dr. Strange, sitting to the Sub-Mariner's right, shot a glance at his ally. Four of them were present, and they were all hard to keep in a unit. Were they even a team? It was hard to say. All they had was a grudging respect for one another...most of them had it, anyway...sometimes a common cause, and a group name which was more a convienience than a reality. 

"There is always a reason, Namor," the magician reassured him, resting orange-gloved hands on the table. "Even if the cause is only vibrations of unnatural and intense origin in the very ether. It is best to be on hand, and have nothing happen, than to--" 

"NO!" 

All three of the others shot a glance of concern at their fourth partner. His face was a mask of rage, one they had seen all too frequently. He raised a great green fist which was larger than most human heads and continued to bellow. 

"Dumb magician brings Hulk from desert to big town. Should be people to fight, to smash! Hulk came all this way for nothing? Hulk will smash ANYWAY!" 

He raised the other fist and began to bring both of them down. "Hulk!" shouted Dr. Strange. 

"Oh, dear," gasped Wong, Strange's servant, who had just come through the door with a water pitcher for Namor. Clea poked her head in and gaped, the white wiggles of curls from her hairdo shaking. 

The mighty fists of the green goliath came down with the force of small-yield nuclear weapons. But before they could reach the table's surface, one of them was grasped by the Sub-Mariner, the other by the gleaming hands of the Silver Surfer. 

"Cease and desist, Hulk!" cried Namor. "This is the home of Dr. Strange! He is your friend!" 

"The Hulk HAS no friends!" roared the behemoth. 

"If you do not ease your wrath," said the Surfer in his unearthly tone, "your statement will prove a true one." 

Clea cast a spell from her outstretched forefinger as Dr. Strange shot forth a beam from the amulet at his chest. As the two others struggled with the Hulk's juggernaut arms, Clea's beam struck the Hulk's eyes, and dazzled him optically and mentally. He shook his head in wonder. At the same time, the beam of the Agomotto Amulet struck him in the chest, easing the pounding of his heart. Strange focused all of his will on the task, reinforcing it with beams of mystic power that sprang from his hands. That which had seemed so distant a goal when he was studying with the Ancient One years ago was now accomplished almost without thought. 

Almost. 

He wasn't even sure he could accomplish this, but he was determined to try it. The power he forced into the Hulk's being was designed to soothe his nature, to regress his wrath. And, as Namor and the Surfer grasped his arms, they each thought that they felt his power slacken. 

"What is dumb magician doing?" asked the Hulk, out loud, as his eyelids began to droop. 

"Whatever it is, Stephen, keep doing it," said Clea. 

The sorceror did not answer. Sweat dotted his brow, and the red Cloak of Levitation on his back began to billow without wind. He had matched wills with the likes of Dormammu and Baron Mordo before, and in this contest, he would prevail. Or... 

No, he didn't like the idea of an "or". 

The Surfer's board began to levitate, as its master prepared to use it as a bludgeon against the Hulk, if necessary. But before their eyes, the great green Goliath began to lessen in size. The countermetamorphosis started, as the Hulk's great frame and green skin regressed to the normal body and flesh of Bruce Banner, nuclear scientist. 

The nuclear scientist stood before them in ill-fitting purple pants with the knees ripped out, bare feet, and bare chest. He looked at them in concern. "Uh," he said at last. "Did he do something wrong?" 

Namor looked at Banner evenly. "Not quite," he said, and released his grip on Banner's wrist. The Surfer did the same. 

Banner collapsed into a chair. "I'm sorry," he said. "What are we here for?" 

The Silver Surfer gestured towards Dr. Strange. "The sorceror said he detected some category of magically-based menace. We were summoned, I believe, to deal with it when he found out where it resided." 

"Yet, now," said Namor, resting both fists on his hips, "we find out no danger existed. Except that which came from the Hulk." 

Strange tented his hands before him. "The Orb of Agomotto has never been wrong before, gentlemen. Yet, my mystic probes have not played me false ere now, either. So, for the moment, I am as bewildered as yourselves." 

Clea said, "I suppose it's better to have no danger and be prepared for it, as you said, Stephen, than to have real danger and be unprepared. Well, should we have Wong prepare refreshments for our guests?" 

The Sub-Mariner shot a cold glance at her, then pointed at Strange. "I have said to you before, spell-weaver, that the next time I was summoned, I would not come. My words played me false, since the need was great. But hear me now. I am the sovereign of an empire. I am the ruler of a people. I am the husband of Lady Dorma, and soon to be father of an heir. Should you ever--ever--summon me again without cause, prepare for wrath as great as any the Hulk could have unleashed!" 

The Surfer grasped his hovering board in one hand, and set it beneath his feet. "I cannot join in Namor's sentiments, Dr. Strange. For my part, however, I will caution you: my time on this world is distasteful enough without having it unnecessarily wasted. Even by one of the few humans I have come to respect. Farewell." The surfboard floated him through the open doorway, and thence down the hall to an open window. He cloaked his exit from the Greenwich Village brownstone with an aura of invisibility, and took to the skies once more. 

"Remember my words, Strange," said Namor, and quietly left the room. He, too, left the home of Dr. Strange seconds later, by the same window. 

The master of the mystic arts stared at the weary Bruce Banner before him, then looked at Wong and Clea. What, indeed, could have drawn his attention? A flareup of evil magic that had so quickly died down again? 

Or perhaps it was a threat that only impinged upon those realms he monitored? 

There was more than met the eye. Even the Eye of Agomotto. 

Clea broke the silence. "Can we get you something to drink, Dr. Banner?" 

Bruce Banner sat up a bit straighter in the chair and rubbed his temples, smiling wanly. 

"Tea would be nice," he said. 

-M- 

The workday was over at Gilbert Industries. In his Long Island home, Gary Gilbert decided to put in a little time at his moonlighting job. 

But first, he went to a special area of his sub-basement, opened a titanium steel door with his handprint, and looked in at what was inside. Among other things, a suit of red and yellow armor hung on the wall. 

A suit not unlike Iron Man's. Except it had been worn, once upon a time, by the Firebrand. 

That was before Gary Gilbert had realized you could do a lot more operating under the radar of those idiots who propped up the Establishment in their stupid costumes. To do that, you had to quit wearing a stupid costume yourself. And quit using a stupid name. 

"Firebrand" wasn't quite that stupid a name. But he'd put it aside, just like he'd put aside the armor. 

But his politics? His views? His aims and purposes? 

Concealed, yes. 

Put aside? 

He laughed, to himself. Then he reached inside the chamber and took a communicator device from a table. He activated it. 

A voice came from its speaker. "Password," it demanded. 

Gary Gilbert answered it. 

"Fire," he said. 

To be continued...   



	4. Part 4:  Fury, Falcon, and Widow

  
FIRE! 

A Tale of the Marvel Universe 

by DarkMark 

Part 4 

The Stilt-Man was having more problems negotiating the hills of San Francisco than he did the streets of Manhattan. He was managing--his thirty-foot-and-more metal stilt extensions with their heavy, flat, round bottoms were able to traverse just about any solid terrain--but it really taxed his gyroscopes staying upright.   
The reason why he was here was because Daredevil, his greatest (and so far only) enemy, had relocated to the Bay Area. So there he was, walking the streets...really, walking about 25 feet above them...and waiting for Frisco's two resident heroes to come after him. Along the way he put his foot through the roof of a police car, squashed a bodega, kicked in the front window of a department store, demolished a restaurant on Russian Hill, and utterly squashed a dog. 

The cops had shot at him, but his armor was proof against their bullet. He was confident only Iron Man and Doctor Doom had a better rig than his, and maybe, one of these days, he could actually catch up. 

So the Stilt-Man walked. Up and down the hills of San Francisco, he walked. People tended to get the hell out of his way. 

Then, finally, came the familiar voice. "Hey, Stilty...couldn'tcha have phoned at least to tell me you were coming to town?" 

Him. 

Daredevil! 

The Stilt-Man turned in the direction the voice came from, as fast as his metal-clad body would let him. It mainly had to be a turn from the waist, as it would take a few seconds to maneuver his leg extensors towards that way. Daredevil was there, crouched on the roof of a nearby building. Red costume with the black highlights, the mask with the hokey little devil's horns on it, the eyes obscured by red lenses. The skintight costume showed how powerful the man's physique was, stronger than Stilt-Man's, by a sight. 

But not with the armor, it wasn't. 

"I'm just making a short stopover, Daredevil," said Stilt-Man, slowly, pointing his finger. "Just long enough to kill you." 

He never knew how Hornhead managed to dodge as well as he did. But the man was in motion even as the click of the projectile firer he had stuffed in his metal glove went off. Leaping straight at Stilt-Man, even as the explosive head of the tiny missle blew a ventilator unit to smithereens behind him. 

Stilt-Man retracted his leg extensors, telescoping him down ten feet within a second. Daredevil was flying through the empty space where he had been when DD started the leap. But no one could underestimate the man in red. As he leaped, he'd pulled the blasted billy club out of its holster and had shaken it to send the crooked end of it flying loose, trailing a rope between both of its parts. 

The thing whirled around him like a bola, and Daredevil came swinging up like a Tarzan movie stuntman. Well, Stilt-Man was prepared for eventualities, too. He held an arm in front of his vulnerable face to ward off DD's kicking feet as they made contact with him. Then he lashed out with his armored hand, backhanding the hero a glancing blow. Stilt-Man wanted better contact, but the man moved just too well. 

Daredevil was hanging there, now, at the end of the billy club cable he'd tangled around Stilt-Man's torso. Stilt-Man grasped the rope, began to pull his foe up towards him. "Your jokes seem to be in short supply this trip," he noted. 

"What can I say? It's the writer's strike," replied Daredevil, showing a red scratch on the exposed part of his face where Stilt-Man had hit him. 

Stilt-Man grasped the rope just three feet above Daredevil's grip, and pointed his other hand at the hero's face. "I've got more than one missle in this finger," he said. "You can let go and drop oh, about 40 feet, and turn into pizza at the end. Or you can take this in the face. Either way, let's face facts. You're his--" 

He never knew where she had come from before that moment. She simply wasn't in his field of vision, then she was. 

Whatever the case, a beautiful and lithe redhaired woman in a black bodysuit was hanging from the roof of a building opposite him, suspended by a cable from a device on her wrist. Her other hand was pointed at his face, bent down at the wrist. He could barely see a glint of metal on her arm. 

It was pointed at his face, and that was the last thing he knew before the pain. 

The Black Widow unleashed a sub-killing bolt of energy from her Widow's Bite directly at Stilt-Man's lower face. He didn't have time to dodge, to put up an arm, to do anything. He just got it right in the chops. 

A couple of seconds later, Daredevil yelled, "Timber!", and leaped away from Stilt-Man as he inertly crashed backward into the street with a terrific bang. Several cars, a kid's bike, and a garbage can or two were the worse for it. 

DD landed on the Black Widow's body and grabbed her for dear life. Natasha Romanoff grunted momentarily from the strain on her wrist. "If you gain any more weight--" 

"I know, I know," he said. "I'll have to go back to lawyering full-time. You did good, Natasha." 

"Against oafs like that, it's not hard," she scoffed, keeping a grip on him as she eased them both to a window ledge. "Besides, he'd never seen us work together." 

"I was counting on it." Daredevil rapped on the window. "I'd rather not break in unless I have to." 

A woman's agitated face appeared behind the pane. DD smiled. Behind him, the Widow rearranged her hair, perched on a six-inch ledge. "Uh, ma'am? My name is Daredevil, and this is my associate, the lovely and talented Black Widow. If you would, please...we just need to get off of this ledge." 

It took a little persuading for her not to call the cops right away, but she finally let them in. 

Much later, Natasha made her excuses to Matt Murdock, threw on a stylish overcoat, and went to a park across town. It was, she thought as she sat down on a bench, all too cliche. The rezendevous in the public place. But sometimes cliches were cliches, she reminded herself, because they worked. 

Before long Georg sat down beside her. He had the look and tweedy suit of a college professor, though his cover was a professional photographer's job. "Natasha," he said, in greeting. 

"Good day, Georg," she responded. "What do you have for me today?" 

"Not as much as I'd love to give you, I'm afraid." 

"I'm spoken for. Give me what else you've got." 

Georg sighed. "You know what the KGB and the Feds here would do to me, to you, if they caught us together? We'd be lucky to both just get deportation." 

"I know, I know," she said. "I have a new life, Georg. But sometimes, part of the old life is of use to me." 

"Like me?" 

She inclined her head, inquisitively. 

Georg leaned back on the bench, contemplating some tie-dyed types taking care of business about a hundred yards away. Most likely making a dope deal, but if one of them was FBI, or a cop... "We think some of our super-ops have been contacted by an independent agency." 

"For what?" 

"We don't know for what. But, Bojemoi, Widow...we've few enough of them left to us as it is. Ten years ago we had real progress. Crimson Dynamo. Destroyer. Red Ghost. Unicorn. Titanium Man. Mongu. Now, where are they? Seen the bright lights, big cities of the West, found out how much money they can make as super-criminal thieves, and bomp, they're gone." 

"You left me out, Georg. Ten years ago, I was one of them, too." 

"Ah. Well, what can I say? But--so far the ones who are still in our camp don't have enough information. The one trying to bribe them is sharp enough not to give them enough, at the outset. Put a hook in their mouths, and you could drag the whole KGB out with them. Too big a fish to land safely." 

"Do they know anything about the operation they were being recruited for?" 

"Not much. Only the size of the money they were promised. Between ten and fifty thousand per man. How are we supposed to keep operatives when they're offered that kind of money?" 

"Appeal to their patriotism, Georg." 

"Better we tell them that, if they accept it without being double agents for us, they'll get shot." 

"I haven't got much more time. Give me anything else you've got." 

Georg scratched himself and looked at the hippies dispersing from their gathering. "The only thing I've got is a word mentioned to some of them. It may be an operational name. I don't know what it is." 

"What's the word?" 

The brown-haired spy looked at her and lowered his voice, as he'd seen spies do in American and even Russian movies. In this case, Natasha estimated, it might be necessary. 

"Fire," he said. 

-F- 

Captain America and the Falcon were an unlikely pair, at first glance. They didn't seem to add up, as a team. One World War II vet in a flag-based uniform with a shield, his every other bit of dialogue a speech. One streetwise but cheerful black guy in green and yellow, with a trained falcon on his arm, about a generation younger. One of them was in the Avengers and the other one wasn't. As for the one who wasn't, hanging around with a honky supercop wasn't the kind of stuff that was going to get you much credibility in the 'hood. 

But somehow, it did. And somehow, it worked. Both for Cap and Falc, who had finally stopped sighing at all the I Spy jokes. They worked well together. They fought well together. And if Falc was a bit p.o.'ed about sometimes being perceived as Captain America's junior partner (hell, he was too big to be Bucky Barnes), at least Cap never treated him that way. 

Steve Rogers was holding down a job as a beat cop in Manhattan and Sam Wilson was working as a teacher in a Harlem school. Sometimes Sam met Luke Charles at a between-schools function, and could swear the guy seemed somehow familiar, though he couldn't tell from where. 

At the moment, though, Cap and the Falcon were finishing playing drum soloes on the hatboxed heads of a unit of AIM agents. These guys, in their yellow getups and the helmets with the little mesh gratings in front, had been trying to recover something or other from an old Yellow Claw hideout in Chinatown. Cap had gotten a tip about it from an informant, possibly one of an agency which rivalled AIM, and had rousted out the Falcon to help him perform the ceremonies. When it was over, about a dozen of the guys in the creepy yellow costumes were on the far side of dreamland, some with Redwing's talon marks on their chests and arms. 

"Guess we call up Fury and have him do the honors," opined Falc, Redwing coming to a rest on his gauntlet. 

"SHIELD will pass the buck to the local cops for something like this, and then pick them up from downtown," said Cap. "I've seen it done before." 

The Falcon peered at his partner quizzically. "They don't even care that we took down a dozen AIM agents? I mean, these are the guys that SHIELD fought just after Hydra." 

Cap shifted his shield on his forearm. "AIM isn't as powerful as it used to be in the old days. Mainly, it's a bunch of little outfits running around in competition with each other, and one central bureau trying without much luck to make them all play on the same team. They're still a threat, but not the one they were when they started out. Neither is Hydra." 

"Guess we can be thankful for some things," said the Falcon. "You want to go outside and make the call? I'll hang over these guys if you want. I just wanna get back home on time tonight." 

"I'll go," said Cap. Then he did a double-take and leaped at one of the fallen AIM men. The Falcon didn't have enough time even to get out a "Cap, what," before the man in red, white, and blue was wrenching one of the pillbox helmets off the agent's metal collar. But, abruptly, Falc knew the reason for Cap's leap. 

The AIM guy, who looked like an ordinary, balding man with his helmet off, was gasping for breath. Cap got his gloved fingers in the guy's mouth, prying it open, trying to see what was in his mouth besides his tongue and teeth. The Falcon grasped the man from the back, trying to support him, wondering if mouth-to-mouth was an option. 

Then a familiar almond odor told him it wasn't. 

A final rattle of breath, and the man in the yellow outfit slumped in the Falcon's arms. "Holy spit, Cap," Falc said, in a low voice. "Cyanide." 

Grimly, Cap nodded, wiping his gloves carefully on the man's shirt. "Maybe the old hollow-tooth trick. I saw him make a move. He must have been biting down. There was no way to tell it, with the helmet on. Get the masks off these other guys." 

Despite the fact that the motion roused some of their prisoners, Falc complied. A couple of the agents tried to resist, as getting an AIM agent to show his face was usually as easy as pulling fingernails. But a couple of judicious shots to the labonza proved instructive for both the ones experiencing it, and for those only watching. By the time they had eleven barefaced AIM operatives, most of the crew was awake. They were also staring at their dead comrade. 

Captain America braced one of the men. "Tell me why he did that," said Cap. 

"I don't know why--" 

"Tell me!" Cap pinned him against the concrete wall with a red-gloved hand at his throat, and a fist poised before his face. 

"I don't know. He was our team leader. I don't know. They don't tell us everything." 

"You sure you want to stand on that?" 

"He's telling the truth, Fancy Pants," said another AIM man, a blonde with the look of a garage mechanic, who probably had a college degree, nonetheless. "We were told not to ask questions on this one. We were just out to lift something from this place." 

"Something so valuable a man would kill himself over it," said Cap. "I wonder what?" 

"How the hell should I know?" scoffed the other. 

The Falcon raised his arm and let him look Redwing right in the face. The great bird crowed and fluttered his wings. He looked like he hadn't had lunch yet. 

"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know!" said the agent, cowering against the wall. "Keep that thing away from me!" 

"Better," pronounced the Falcon, folding his arm towards his chest. 

"I think we should call SHIELD," opined Cap. "And tell them they should come directly for this bunch." 

"Okay," said his partner, taking out Redwing's hood from his belt. 

Cap stood before the band of AIM men and took their measure, coldly. To the Falcon, he said, "You make the call. I'll stay right here." 

"You got it," said the Falcon, and went up the nearby steps. 

-F- 

Nick Fury took the call in the heli-carrier right in the midst of a budget meeting. "Damn," he damned, and punched a button on his phone. "Nick Fury." 

"Hi, Nick," said the Falcon. Fury recognized his voice. He'd worked with him and Cap on a few cases recently. Even though Fury and Cap were currently not the best of pals, he had nothing against the Harlem hero. 

"Afternoon, Falc," rumbled Fury, taking a smouldering cigar from an ashtray. The fumes were driving Jasper Sitwell bats, which effect Gabe Jones noticed and grinned about. 

"We've got an even dozen AIM agents for you to pick up in Chinatown," the Falcon told him. "Eleven of 'em are living." 

"What happened to number twelve?" 

"Poisoned himself. That's why Cap thought I ought to maybe call you first, instead of the cops." 

Fury positioned the stogie in his mouth and took a satisfying draw before he answered. "They were after something in one of the Yellow Claw's digs, right?" 

"How'd you know that?" 

"I'm SHIELD, youngster." 

"Thanks for reminding me." Fury had the feeling Falc wanted to add the words "old man," but didn't. 

Dum Dum Dugan shifted in his chair and pulled his derby a little lower on his forehead. He wanted this danged meeting to be over and done with. How much money do we get from Congress? How much money does Stark International have tied up in us? What about the Stark-Hughes rumors? That last bit was the only thing interesting to Dum Dum. If Tony Stark really was getting ready to sell out to the Hughes Corporation, you could bet there'd be some changes around SHIELD. 

He wanted the meeting to be over mainly so he could go a few rounds in the gym ring with Nick. One bout of boxing with the Old Man could make a whole lousy week in the Heli-Carrier worthwhile. Almost. 

"So. Cap feels this one is enough for us to handle directly, huh?", Fury continued. 

"If somebody kills himself rather than risk spilling secrets to us--yeah, man, I'd say so," the Falcon confirmed. 

"Okay, Falc. Tell me where." 

The Falcon gave him the address. "How soon can you be here?" 

"We'll have a pickup unit within the hour. But call the NYPD too, okay? They get kind of antsy when they're not even told about it." 

"Will do," said Falcon. "Thanks, Nick." 

"Don't mention it," said Fury, and punched off the connection. "Where were we?" 

Val de Fontaine said, "Congress is still holding firm on that extra ten million. But Senator Dirksen has sent word that he wants to see more results." 

"Of what kind?" asked Sitwell, all crewcut and round glasses of him. "Our success against recent HYDRA operations is a matter of record. The initial showing of your Female Furies Battalion, Val, was a success. AIM is doing penny-ante stuff compared to what they were into when I joined up, six years ago. What's his objection?" 

Val, a European contessa of considerable beauty and just as much espionage and fighting skills, replied, "Mainly that HYDRA and AIM aren't as big a threat as they used to be, and a lot of our recent operations have been spearheaded by an unpaid consultant. Captain America." 

Nick Fury's good eye rolled to the ceiling. At one time, he and Cap had been the best of friends. But since learning that Val, his lover, also had a lust for Star-Spangled Steve, which remained unconsummated but which had led to Cap's girlfriend Sharon Carter leaving SHIELD...well, things hadn't been so cordial between them. 

Plus there was the fact that Cap was such a glamor-pants, the guy all the papers liked to plaster on their front page, the joe that always had a great speech to throw out for the microphones. Like he was a Southern Democrat in blue tights. Even back in the War, that was how it was: Fury and the Howlers slogging down there in the mud, while Captain Shield-Slinger and Bucky punched out guys in fancy costumes with the Invaders. He'd since learned that Cap had been a common soldier in his secret identity, and Fury's deepest wish was that he could have had him in the Howlers for just one week. After that, he wouldn't be good for anything. 

"Yeah, well," said Fury, "you can tell Senator Dirksen that we plan on using Captain America a lot less in the future, if at all. And you can furthermore tell that ornery white-haired so-and-so that the only thing keepin' HYDRA and AIM down where they are is a strong SHIELD doin' what it does. If we don't get the bucks, we can't do the job. Savvy?" 

"Received, Nick," said Val, with a bit of a sigh. 

"Some of them are talking about retiring the heli-carrier," ventured Sitwell. "They want us to use the ground installation exclusively. The jet fuel bills alone..." 

"Well, some of them can take their wants and shove 'em where the sun don't shine, Sitwell," snapped Fury, standing up so quickly he shoved his chair against the wall. "And some of them can put on a SHIELD uniform and come out with us in a fire fight against those goons in the chicken-scratchin' green hoods, if they wanna see how it is. And some of them can try goin' up against everybody in HYDRA Island single-handed, like I had to do once, and see how they like it. And if there's any of 'em left after that...well, some of them are just gonna have to learn how to live with it." 

"Hey, Nick, cool out, brother," said Gabe. "Sitwell's just tellin' ya what he heard. I've been hearin' some along that line, too." 

"You have, huh? From who?" Fury puffed furiously on his stogie. Val waved her hand in front of her face to dispel the smoke. 

"Around." Gabe met Fury's gaze without flinching. "It ain't 1965 anymore, Nick. Vietnam ain't an easy sell anymore...and neither is SHIELD." 

Silence. 

Then Nick said, "That's what they're saying, huh?" 

"Some of 'em are, Nick," Gabe replied. 

Fury put his hands on the table top. "War's always an easy sell, up until people start dyin' in it. Now...what the hell. The war doesn't turn out like they like it, they blame the army. They blame the government. They blame the cops. I guess we had to get blamed sometime." 

"We don't have a thing to do with the Vietnam war, Nick," said Val. 

"That's not what Nick's sayin', Val," said Dum Dum. "What he's sayin' is, we're authority. If people in this country don't like authority, they don't like us." 

"Not all of the country sees it that way," Sitwell put in. "Only a vocal minority is involved in the militant movement, both in the antiwar and the black militancy factions. Most of the country is still pro-American, even if sentiment is growing against the war." 

"Yeah, Jasp," said Gabe. "But most of the country isn't what you see on the evening news. The guys with the signs and the guys with the Panther Party...that's what you see." 

Fury sighed and sat down. He took the cigar from his mouth. "Okay. I'll talk to the Congress. Sitwell, think you can set it up?" 

"Me, sir?" Sitwell sat a bit straighter. "Why, I'd be honored to. I'll inform them that you'll be willing, at the earliest possible window of availability, to address a joint session of Congress that--" 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," said Fury. "Just tell 'em I'm coming to give a talk. Think you can do that?" 

"Absolutely, sir," said Sitwell, and saluted. 

Fury said, "That's all from me. Anybody got anything for me?" 

Gabe said, "About the Yellow Claw thing, Nick. Jimmy Woo asked me to pass on something. He was talking to his old FBI boss, Phil Kane, the other day. It's not confirmable all the way, but as far as they know, the Yellow Claw has not been confirmed outside of the PRC in the last ten to fourteen years." 

"Hmm. Makes sense." Fury mused on how he and SHIELD had fought what appeared to be the Yellow Claw, a powerful Oriental genius, some years back, only to learn that the "Yellow Claw" they fought was only a robot. They had never learned who built him. But it had been a good enough duplicate to deceive even Jimmy Woo, who had fought the real Yellow Claw back in the late Fifties. 

"The other thing is, there's unconfirmed that some agency has been trying to contact both the Claw and the Mandarin. All they know is that it's evidently somebody from the West. They don't think it's HYDRA, AIM, Secret Empire, or anybody else we know." 

"Have they made contact?" asked Fury. 

"Don't know that, either," said Jones. 

"Well, then, somebody better find out real quick." 

"Want me to send for Jimmy?" 

"Yeah," said Fury. Woo was still in love with Suwaan, the Claw's daughter. If anybody wanted more to come to grips with the Claw than Jimmy, Fury didn't know about it. 

"That's it," Fury continued. "Meeting adjourned. Get back to work, guys. Doin' a great job." 

The five of them began to get up from the table. Val came near Fury, touched his arm. "Nick," she said. "After work tonight, I'm available. Is it still--possible?" 

Fury stubbed his cigar out in the ashtray. "I'm gonna have to work late, Val." 

"How late, Nick?" 

"You still know the number of my room up here," he said. 

Val smiled. "I've still got to put the Furies through their paces. Then I'll put one Fury through mine." She sashayed through the door in her white suit, and Fury followed her with his good eye all the way. 

Dum Dum was next. "Still feel like you've got a few more in ya, Nick? If I don't get some action here, I'm gonna go so stiff you'll have to bend me five times to get me in a meetin' chair." 

"I'll take ya on, you ol' walrus," said Fury. "Gimme about half an hour to get finished up here, and I'll be in the gym." 

"Attaway, Nick." Dum Dum punched him in the shoulder. He'd started out as Nick's corporal back in the Howling Commandoes, and served much the same role now in SHIELD. The redheaded man in the derby left, followed shortly by Gabe. 

Fury turned his head and saw Sitwell still at the table. "Well, youngster?" 

"I'm sorry, Colonel," Sitwell apologized. "I was just--thinking." 

"What about, that Madame Masque dame?" 

"No, surprisingly enough, not her," said Sitwell. Madame Masque, aka Whitney Frost, was a reformed villainess both he and Tony Stark had fallen in love with, and there was no telling where she was now or who she would choose. "It's just...the bit Gabe told us about the Mandarin and the Yellow Claw. I've been wondering if there's a link between that and a recent drop in supercriminal activity." 

"According to the papers, the super-types are still around," Fury said. 

"Not to the same extent they have been," Sitwell answered. "It's as if a large number of them may have gone to ground for awhile. They used to pop up all over the place, and now...there's enough to keep the current complement of super-heroes busy, but not more than that." 

"Think there's something you could find out?" 

"It's something I'd like to try, sir," said Sitwell. Then he added, "After I arrange your speech, of course." 

"Go to it, kid," said Fury, and walked out. 

After a moment, Sitwell followed him. 

-F- 

"The answer is no." 

"But, your excellency--" 

"NO. Doom does not conspire. Doom is not used. Doom uses! This conversation is ended." He stabbed a button on his console that would not only break the contact, but prevent further contact from being made. 

The gall. The insufferable, common-man gall of the representative. To think that he himself, Doctor Doom, would possibly--could possibly--be induced to participatory activity with a too-large band of costumed inferiors in a disruptory mission of ill-defined intent. 

Doom was not a soldier in an army. He led the army, if one was needed. For the most part, Doom needed only himself. 

Unless, of course, there was a possibility to exploit the chaos that might result from the army's operations. 

That, indeed, was a consideration. 

The cloaked man in the iron armor decided that the situation would bear watching. From a distance, of course. 

Until it was time to strike. 

To be continued...   



	5. Part 5:  The Torch Is Passed

FIRE! 

A Tale of the Marvel Universe 

by DarkMark 

Part 5 

Johnny Storm sat and shot short flares from a forefinger through a series of fire-rings, stacked one atop the other, several inches above his hand. 

"Johnny, don't do that," complained Sue Richards. "I don't want to have to replace the wallpaper." 

"It's fireproofed, sis," said Johnny, idly. 

"So? What about the window?" 

"Quartz. You know that. I'd have to be up a magnitude to melt it." 

Sue Richards stood before him in her blue uniform, hands on hips. "I swear, sometimes I just feel like taking a force-field and wrapping it around your head." 

"Be cool, sis. Just be cool." Johnny was not looking at her while he said it. 

"Reed wants us on tap for the weekly meeting," Sue reminded him. "I just wish I could present a brother who seemed to give a rap about anything these days." 

Johnny's finger pointed down to the floor and slowly flamed out. The rings fell towards the rug but were ash before they reached the thick pile carpeting. A second after they touched the surface, a wall hatch opened and a robot equipped with a vacuum cleaner attachment emerged, sucked up the dust, and retracted back inside the wall. 

"So what am I supposed to give a damn about?" asked Johnny. "Who's shown up for a fight this month?" 

Sue sighed and sat in a formica chair beside him, next to an abstract painting by Jackson Pollock. "I'm concerned about you, Johnny. I think you're throwing your life away." 

"Hey, it's my life to throw away, Sue. At the rate we make enemies around here, I might throw it away any day now." 

"We all might," Sue said. "But we haven't yet. What about in between times, Johnny? What are you going to do with yourself?" 

"I haven't decided. Being a full-time superhero is too much fun." He said it while staring out the window at the evening sky over Manhattan, without the wisp of a smile on his face. 

Sue Richards rested one hand on his shoulder. "You're not talking to me, brother." 

"What do you want me to tell you, sis?" 

"Tell me what's bothering you." 

"Nothing." He shrugged. "I'm the Human Torch, idol of all the millions that aren't the millions idolizing Ben. I make thousands of dollars a month just doin' what I do. Bein' part of the Fantastic Four. Why should anything bother me?" 

She said nothing. 

He looked at her, irritated. "Well?" 

"Well, what?" 

"You want me to say something, Sue. You always want me to say something." 

"I'd be content if you just started acting like a 25-year-old instead of a 15-year-old brat." 

"And I'd be content if you'd keep your freakin' nose out of my business!" 

"Oh? So when have we ceased being family, Johnny Storm?" 

"Since never! We've always been family, Sue. Maybe too much of a family." 

"Is there such a thing as 'too much' family, Johnny?" 

"There is when a nosey sister starts pestering me about my life." 

"Well?" 

"You want me to say 'Well, what?' again? All right. Well, what?" 

"Well, I want you to tell me what the problem is before we start the meeting tonight." 

Johnny looked at his left foot, lifted it, thought about how easy it would be to make it and its mate shoot out flames and propel him around the room on a jet of fire. All it took was a small mental effort. The "Flame on!" cry was just for kicks. And because the first Human Torch said it in the comic books. 

"It's about Crystal, isn't it?" said Sue, resting her chin on her hand, which rested on the back of her chair. 

Johnny looked at her. "Part of it. That's part, I s'pose." 

"So? Talk." Sue waited, patiently. 

He sighed. "Sometimes it was easier, maybe, when she was still behind that Negative Zone barrier in the Refuge. I loved her, I knew she loved me, sis, and we both waited till the day she'd get out and tried our darndest, each of us, to get her out. We knew we'd have somethin' goin' then. And then..." 

Sue Richards scratched her head, idly. "Then...it wasn't what you wanted?" 

"Oh, yeah, it was, but...it wasn't," said Johnny, hands clamped together and dangling between his knees. "Heck, I thought we'd be married first thing. But it didn't work like that. I was in college and she wanted to get to know me better, even if we were in love, and we dated and we waited and...ah, Sue, you know it all. You know it all." 

"I know, John," she said, softly. "But it's you telling it." 

"And that blasted Black Bolt, yanking her back to the Great Refuge every time somebody sneezes on an Alpha Primitive. So she's back there, and she can't come here because of the effects air pollution has on her lungs, like it doesn't have some effect on everybody's, and..." 

"Johnny," said Sue. 

He looked at her. "What?" 

"There's always the other way. You know the old story about Mohammed and the mountain. Why haven't you gone to her?" 

His jaw flapped open. Several seconds later, Johnny said, "Well, I...I mean, it's her decision. There's...I've got stuff to do here, Sue. I'm one of the Fantastic Four!" 

Sue nodded. "So am I. But she spelled me when I had Franklin. The FF still functioned, Johnny." 

"Oh, now, come on, Sue. You're not telling me to leave the team and go to the Great Refuge." 

"I'm not telling you to do anything, John. Just giving you an alternative." 

"I can't! I'm needed here." 

"Well, then?" She looked as tractable as the Sphinx. 

"Come on, Sue, we don't need to get back to the 'Well?' 'Well, what?' stuff." 

"Sounds to me like you've made a decision. If you can't live with her and the Fantastic Four at the same time, you'll live without her." 

Johnny Storm looked thunderstruck. "No. I--no, sis, you've got it all wrong. You do!" 

"Do I?" 

"I've got to...I've gotta find some way to get us both together. So that I can have her, and be with the group. The Fantastic Four means something. We're the first heroes of the new age, sis. And the FF can't do without the Human Torch." 

"Sounds to me like the Human Torch can't do without the FF, either." 

He didn't look at her. 

"The FF's the biggest part of your life, isn't it, Johnny?" 

He rubbed his hands across his face. "I didn't finish college, because of the FF and trying to find Crystal. I can't get together with her, on account of that pollution thing, and the Inhumans rebuilding the Refuge after that Skrull / Kree War, and...on account of the FF." 

Sue Richards kneaded her brother's tense shoulders. "Don't put all the blame on the FF, Johnny. It was you who made those decisions. You chose not to--" 

"All right!" Johnny whipped around, causing her to lose her grip. "What do you want me to say? I'm a college dropout. There. I'm not doing what Dad would have wanted me to. I'm not ever going to rack up as many degrees as...as Reed. Reed even gets married, to you. What about me? Why can't I find somebody?" 

"You have found somebody, Johnny. But she's a very special somebody, and she may not ever really be able to be part of human society." 

"That shouldn't matter!" 

Sue waited. 

Johnny shook his head. "I'm sorry, Sue. I'm sorry as heck. I know it's unreasonable, I'm unreasonable. It's just...I fight a villain with the group, once a month on the average. In between I go down and mess with my cars, or go to shows, or try to find something to do. Call up Wyatt, maybe, but he's still in school. And, y'know..." 

He paused a long time. 

"I tried to hook up with some of my old buddies from Glenville High," Johnny confessed. "Some of us went out once, for old time's sake. But they're booked up now. Either in school, or working, or married. We couldn't hang out anymore. One or two of 'em went with me to a ball game or club or something once or twice, but then...that was it. I'm not part of a gang anymore." 

"Not in the civilian world, you mean." 

"Yeah." Johnny looked up at her. "I liked the civilian world." 

Sue said, quietly, "You've grown up, John." 

"I...I guess..." Johnny Storm swallowed. "I guess I have. A little. Maybe." 

"Isn't it time you saw yourself as an individual, and not just as part of the team?" 

"Reed will kill you for this," he said. "You're suggesting I drop out of the Fantastic Four." 

"I'm suggesting you take responsibility for your life, and do what you think is best," she answered. "If you want to go back to school, do it. The world's got lots of super-heroes, Johnny. But you've only got one you." 

"You'll need," he said. He paused, then tried to say it again. "You'll need--" 

But he couldn't get any farther. 

Sue went on. "If you want Crystal, go to her. Black Bolt would welcome you into the Refuge, even as torn-up as it is. Or you can go to college and see her when you can. She'll understand, believe me, and abscence does make the heart grow fonder. You both learned that when Maximus put up the barrier." 

"Yeah," said Johnny, quietly. "But you know somethin', Sue? When we got to be together again, once the barrier went down, at first, it was all aces. But then, it kinda got..." His voice trailed off. Then, he said: "It wasn't what it was supposed to be." 

"Are you still in love with her, Johnny?" 

"Yes," he said. "Oh, yes." 

"But the reality of love wasn't like that fantasy of love you had, when she was behind the barrier. Was it?" 

"If you say so," he said, with a touch of surliness. 

"How much longer do you think I'm going to play Dear Abby? Can't you even admit your feelings to yourself?" 

"All right, all right, all right! No, it wasn't. Not for her, or for me. But I...but we still worked out okay together. Even when she joined the team for awhile. Sue, I...I..." 

He fumbled for words, and she waited. 

Finally, he said, "Putting things off. We've both been putting things off." 

"Like life," said Sue, resting her face in one hand. 

"Uh huh," said Johnny. 

"Maybe like love, too." 

"Oh, definitely," he said. 

"John. Crystal's been doing the same thing. Every time Black Bolt yanks her chain, she's back in the Refuge with the others. He really doesn't approve of her being outside the family unit. That's how they are. They're probably afraid, because they once lost Medusa and they don't want to lose Crys, too." 

"There's that little matter of her pollution allergy, too." 

"Oh, Reed could find a way around that, in time. Maybe the Inhumans could, too. But neither one of you has shown the willingness to do something people in love frequently have to do, Johnny. Neither one of you seems to want to leave your family." 

"Holy crud," said Johnny. "I know that, but...I know it like clear as rain. But I've never said it before, Sue. Not out loud." 

"Well, now you have. So what are you going to do about it?" 

Johnny Storm stood up, his back to the quartz window on one of the uppermost stories of the Baxter Building. "I'm gonna call up ESU in the morning, and see if they'll take me back for the fall semester." 

"They should," Sue said, rising to her five-foot-eight height. "Your grades weren't that bad." 

"Then I'll call up the Great Refuge on the comm link. And I'm gonna talk to Crystal. Just talk. Let her know what I'm gonna do, and where we're at." 

"What are you going to tell Reed and Ben, brother?" 

He hesitated. Then he said, "I guess I'll have to tell 'em all about it." 

"Sounds like you're making some good decisions," she said. 

Johnny shook his head. "When I think of what's come down in the last year alone...I mean, the water-guy, Galactus and the Surfer, Gabriel, Diablo, Doc Doom, the Over-Mind, the Stranger...it's hard to see how you could tackle a lineup like that without the Human Torch." 

"We'll manage," said Sue. "The world didn't end when the All-Winners Squad went out of business. And there are a lot more heroes now then there were then. Reed, Ben, and I should remain active. You know what else, brother?" 

"What, sis?" 

She smiled and mussed his hair. "I don't think the Human Torch will stay out of action for long. Even if you have to go on solo cases like you did for awhile, or even if you spend most of your time in Attilan after you graduate...I think we'll still be seeing you from time to time." 

"You know it." Johnny smiled and took his sister's long-fingered hand in his own, glancing down at the dark blue gloves of the regulation Fantastic Four uniform. 

"It's almost time for the meeting," Sue reminded him. 

"Let's go give 'em the biggest news of the night." 

The two boarded the elevator, one adapted and modified from the super-express job Doc Savage had used decades ago in the Empire State Building. Seconds later, they were on the floor where the FF had their meeting room. Johnny was more nerved than a green poker player in a room full of cardsharps. He felt a gentle punch in the shoulder. "You'll do fine," she said. 

He looked back and saw nothing behind him. "C'mon, sis, quit playing games. Turn visible." 

"I'm over here," came a voice from in front of him. He whipped his head around and saw Sue, visible again, sliding back the front panel of her belt buckle. A light of a precise intensity shone forth in a tight beam from a projector within and struck a photoelectric cell near the metal door before them. The door slid back along a servo track and admitted the two of them to the sanctum sanctorum of the Fantastic Four. 

The round, white crystal-surfaced meeting table was large enough for slightly more than four people, but only four permanent seats were placed there, and two were occupied. One of those occupants wore the blue FF uniform with the encircled 4 on his chest. His face was that of an intelligent man in his early fifties, fairly handsome, but still worn by the stresses of a hundred battles. Said battles had begun during his OSS career in World War II and resumed when he and his three partners had been exposed to cosmic rays during a space shot. His brown hair had shown gray at the temples so long that Johnny couldn't really remember the time when it looked any different. As he sat, his arm telescoped outward, farther and farther, so quickly the expansion could hardly be tracked by the unaided eye, until his finger pressed a button on a control panel a good eight feet from where he was sitting. The wall to his left receded in halves into the sides of the room and exposed a viewscreen behind it. It, like everything else in the room, had been designed by the rubber-armed genius who activated it: Reed Richards. 

To his left sat a being who looked like nothing remotely human. An outsider who had been invited into the room by one of the others, seeing the figure within, would possibly turn on his heel and run as fast as possible in the opposite direction. But the man within did not resemble his cosmically-altered exterior. Once, Ben Grimm had been a ruggedly handsome and very, very tough fighter pilot who had seen action in the Pacific during the Big One. Later, at Reed Richards's behest, he had jockeyed a Pocket Rocket beyond the reach of Earth's gravity, right into the Van Allen Belt where a cosmic radiation storm had aborted their flight. Less than an hour later, the World War II vet's body had expanded, distorted, ripped through his flight suit as though it were made of cotton cloth, gained great bulk, weight, and strength, and festooned itself with an outer carapace of orange scales. 

Man into monster. Ben Grimm into what Sue Storm had called "Some kind of a--thing!" 

As the Thing, Ben Grimm had come to accept his monstrous, powerful new nature. But he had never loved it. 

"Well, whaddya know?" grunted Ben, around a cigar in his mouth. "Matchstick's decided to grace us with his presence. On time, for once." 

"Ben, put a sock in it," said Johnny, in a tone of mild irritation. 

"We aims ta please, Torchy boy," said the Thing. He lifted both fists. "You want it with the left or with the right? Or maybe both. I ain't fussy." 

"Johnny, Ben, for once stop clowning around," said Reed. "This won't take long, hopefully, and then we can review business and get out of here. But I wanted to show you something." 

"Johnny, don't you have something to say?" prompted Sue. 

"Uh, yeah," said the Torch. "Reed, I, um, wanted to say--" 

"Save it till later in the meetin', squirt," said the Thing. "Me, I'm expectin' Ralph Edwards to show up any minute with a book labelled THIS IS YOUR LIFE, BEN GRIMM." 

"Yeah, only it's just one page long," said Johnny. "In large print, too." 

"You want a large print on your face, Torchy?" 

"Ben," Sue reprimanded him. 

"Both of you, quiet down and look here." Reed clicked a control plunger and the viewscreen lit up with a view of a prison. It was familiar to everyone in the room. 

"Ryker's Island," said Johnny. "So?" 

"One of the few prisons in state equipped to handle the most powerful super-villains this side of Galactus," confirmed Reed. "Now, this picture, taken at 800 hours today." 

He clicked again and another slide showed. This time, it was from a different angle, and showed a large part of the west wall of the structure broken down, with concrete fragments all about and a good number of armed guards on the scene. 

"A breakout," Sue noted. 

"Exactly," said Reed. "The west wall of the compound, which houses some of the more dangerous inmates. The Sandman. The Wizard. The Trapster. The Melter. Klaw. Radioactive Man. The Cobra. Mr. Hyde. Plus a number of others. I don't know if you've heard about it or not, but Warden Williams called me to let me know...apparently someone set off an explosive device just outside the wall. Nobody's quite sure how, or what the nature of the bomb was. I'll head out there tomorrow to check things out." 

"It's been on the news," said Ben. "You know, the news, Torchy? It's what they have every hour on the hour on the radio, in between Creedence, Chicago, and the commercials." 

The Torch said, "Haven't been watching the TV much today, or listening to the radio. So why haven't we been on top of this thing already?" 

"I haven't had time," said Reed. "Ben and I were in the midst of recalibrating the entry apparatus for the Negative Zone portal with more safeguards. After the Annihilus incident, we can't afford not to." 

"Oh." Johnny recalled how Annihilus, the malevolent insectoid monarch of the NegZone, had menaced Reed about a year back in the aftermath of the Nega-Man clash, and how he had briefly gotten out when Captain Marvel broke in and used the Zone portal to enable himself and Rick Jones to coexist in the normal world. Now the Kree Captain was merged once again with Rick, and it'd probably take a lot more than the Zone door to get him free. 

"Three of the known escapees are from the Frightful Four," Reed continued. "Whatever the case, we can expect to tangle with them as soon as the Wizard actuates a new scheme. So--be on guard. They've trapped us before. This time, I'd like to be the trapper." 

The Thing ground one fist in his massive right paw. "Now yer talkin', Stretcho. It's time we saw some action around here, and I feel like stuffin' the Sandman headfirst into a kid's pail." 

Sue Richards crossed her arms. "I believe Johnny has something to say, Reed. Don't you, Johnny?" 

Reed's and Ben's eyes went to Johnny, who gulped. Then he clenched his fists at his sides and went ahead. "Uh, I guess I've made a decision, Reed. About college, that is." 

Richards's left eyebrow went up. "And your decision is, Johnny?" 

"I'm going to...I'm going back to school. In the fall." Johnny closed his eyes for an instant, then reopened them. 

The Thing was already up from the table. His face looked as grim as possible. "What's this? You're walkin' out on the Fantastic Four?" 

"Ben," warned Reed, stretching out a hand towards his shoulder. 

The orange-skinned behemoth brushed the hand away without concern. "You're turnin' your back on your buddies, when we might get a call from Doc Doom or the Mad freakin' Thinker any day of the week?" He walked closer to the Torch. 

Sue Richards tensely wondered if she shouldn't put an invisible force shield between Ben and Johnny. 

The Thing, a foot or two away from Johnny Storm, snapped, "You're gonna leave all of us, and all of this, just so you can finish out yer four years in boola-boola land?" 

Johnny Storm said, "That's right, Ben. It's something I think I have to do." 

"In that case, Torchy-boy..." Ben Grimm grabbed Johnny in a friendly but powerful hug. "...Congratulations! Yer doin' the thing you oughta done in the first place! Getcher degree, and we'll keep things rollin' in the meantime. And this time, don't come back except in summer, an' on spring break!" 

"Oof," grunted Johnny. He smiled at his old friend. "Ben, you sonofasomethin', you almost had me goin' there. Now wouldja please quit squeezin' me like I was your last tube of Colgate?" 

"Oh, perish forbid." The Thing opened his arms, and dropped Johnny on his kiester. 

"Umph!" 

Reed grinned, and stretched his hand out to help Johnny up. Then he elongated his entire body over, resumed normal shape, and pumped his partner's hand, firmly. "Congratulations, Johnny. I'll go along with Ben on this: I think you're making the right choice. Even the Human Torch needs a degree to get along in the modern world." 

"I--thank you, Reed. That really does mean something, comin' from you. I mean it." 

"Can we count on your participation with the group until the beginning of the semester?" Reed Richards searched his brother-in-law's eyes with all the intelligence, emotional and analytical, he could manage. 

Johnny smiled, warmly. "Does the Hulk have a green suntan?" He grabbed Reed in a hug of comradeship, and Reed responded with the same. 

"Well, if nobody's got anything else, I suggest we call it a night," said Sue. "After all, some of us have got to get up early in the morning." 

"If Franklin lets us sleep that late," said Reed, resignedly. Their son had just had his third birthday, notable mainly for his spitting up milk and cake on Reed's shirt. "All right, I call this meeting adjourned. And, Johnny?" 

"Yeah, Reed?" 

"When you need some tutoring, call on me." 

"Sure 'nuff." Johnny Storm considered something, then simply said, "Thanks again, Reed. Really." 

"Nothin' for me?" Ben feigned a look of pain. "After all I've meant ta ya these years, as idol, role-model, and mother superior? Some people just got no gratitude, that's all there is to it." 

"Yeah, Ben," said Johnny. "And Alicia let me know just who that person was. But--no kiddin'--it's gonna be hard not seein' your ugly face every day. Just have to tack a photo on a dartboard, I guess." 

"You sure you ain't been hangin' around Yancy Street lately?" 

The 25-year-old shook his partner's huge hand. "We ain't sayin' goodbye yet, Ben. But I got things to do tonight." 

"If ya can arrange it early enough, lemme know and me and Alicia can double-date like we usedta." 

"Nope, not those things. Not even if we could double-date in the Great Refuge. No, I wanna do my thing. Stay loose, big buddy." 

"You too, Torchy-boy. You, too." 

Sue Richards watched her brother open the door with his belt light, after which he walked down the hall and turned the corner. She knew where he was going. Johnny had to cut loose from the group every so often, and she knew just how he'd do it. 

A bit wearily, she smiled. 

At the nearest window, the Torch pressed a code sequence on a nearby activator box and watched it swing open. The opening was big enough for him to fit through. Wordlessly, he climbed out, stood a second on the sill, and wondered how many cabbies and late-night strollers below could see a man standing on the 34th floor of the Baxter Building. 

Then he launched himself outward, falling like a plummet. 

His arms were outstretched, his body held like a diver's. He watched the ground come up at him for a full ten stories before he shouted two words. 

"FLAME ON!" 

The rush of heat and power enveloped his body from feet to forehead in a fraction of a second. It invigorated him every time he did it. The sight of his own arms, red with living flame, a corona of crackling yellow fire about him, leaving a trail behind him like a comet...the feel of his weight being borne upward by the blasts of flame from his feet...the sensation of power and fury that suffused him... How could all those people below him, in their honking cars and slow-moving buses and worn-down feet, bear to live without this feeling? 

He hurtled upwards, over the skyscrapers of Manhattan. 

He could never give up being the Human Torch. 

-M- 

A day later, Reed Richards, in lab coat and civilian garb, was escorted by the warden of Ryker's Island to the area in which the breakout had taken place. "There's somebody already before you," the warden said, keying in the combination that opened the door to the last checkpoint. 

"Who?" said Reed. 

"He's from SHIELD," said the warden as the door swung open. 

Reed stepped forward into the cell block that had held some of New York's most dangerous super-criminals, and which now was a ruin. Concrete blocks lay scattered on the floor, as if from a powerful explosion. Steel reinforcement beams had been bent or wrenched asunder, exposed from the edges of the shattered walls. Surprisingly, not many of the cells themselves had been damaged, besides the doors being torn off (and probably not, Reed guessed, by an explosion). He reached in the kit he had brought with him and was about to clamp a detector-visor to his eyes when he saw someone on the second tier of cells. The other party saw him, as well. 

The man was dressed in a regular Ivy League suit, but sported a bow tie and a short crew cut. The creases of his trousers looked sharp enough to cut a finger on, and his shoes, even though puddles of water lay nearby, were immaculately shined. He also wore glasses. 

"Dr. Reed Richards," said the man. "An honor, sir." 

Reed stretched his neck up to better observe his predecessor, leaving the rest of his body on the floor below. "You seem to have the advantage of me, friend. And you are?" 

"Jasper Sitwell, agent of SHIELD, here by direct order of Colonel Nick Fury." Sitwell snapped off a salute automatically when he pronounced Fury's name. Inwardly, Reed sighed. "Ryker's Island is the first of the breakout sites under consideration." 

"Breakout sites?" Reed gave him a curious look. "There have been others?" 

Sitwell nodded. "Probably part of a coordinated effort," he assured the scientist. 

"Well," said Reed, "perhaps we can coordinate a few efforts ourselves." 

"Once again," smiled Sitwell, portentiously, "an honor, sir." 

The honor is all yours, thought Reed. 

-M- 

Baron Mordo conjured the image of an alrune in his tripod, noted its beauty and enticingness, then dismissed it with a gesture. It vanished with a puff of Faltinian flame. 

He sat back in what passed for a throne in his Transylvanian castle, not thirty miles distant from the one inhabited by the world's most famous vampire. For a time, he had looked over his shoulder upon entering his home, knowing that if anyone could find a way of breaching the antivampiric charms he had cast upon it, Dracula could. But Dracula was three years dead now, slain by the spear of a Scotsman in his own dying act. Mordo did not plan to disturb his rest. 

Dr. Strange was enough to deal with, now. 

But now, he had Defenders. 

Mordo cursed, softly. Strange had been his enemy from the day the bedraggled ex-doctor stumbled over the threshold of the Ancient One's Tibetan lair. The fool had sought the power of healing from the aged wizard, and been rebuffed, but stayed, and discovered Mordo invoking Dormammu's might to strike at the old man. The Ancient One had survived, but Strange had been prevented from revealing Mordo's action by a simple spell. That was when Strange had learned that magic was more than a fantasy. 

If Mordo had only killed him then. But the Ancient One would surely have blocked him. 

In order to resist Mordo, to save the Ancient One from further attacks, and to find a reason for living after losing his ability to be a surgeon, Strange had taken up the study of magic at his new mentor's feet. He learned quickly. Too quickly. By the time he returned to America, clad in a new garment the Ancient One had given him, along with the first amulet he bore, Strange was a competitor. Before long, he became a hated nemesis. 

Mordo had fought him time and again, tried to destroy him and the Ancient One time and again. Even with Dormammu himself backing him, it always failed. The lightsider's skill and his damnable luck had brought him victory. 

This, against Baron Mordo. 

This, against a man whose skills in magic would have made Dr. John Dee, Cagliostro, and Crowley blanch in fear. 

For a time, Strange had forsaken his calling, and Mordo had posed as him with a concealing spell good enough to even fool the servant, Wong. But he had been found out, and Strange defeated him yet again, taking back his burden as Master of the Mystic Arts. 

Now, as Mordo had learned, Strange had allies. Powerful ones. The Hulk, the Sub-Mariner, the Silver Surfer. Though they wielded no magic--however much the Surfer's skills might border on it--they could tip the balance in Strange's favor, were he to attack alone. 

So, how could he gain allies of his own? A team to counter that of these so-called Defenders? 

Mordo mused. He loathed working with others. Even his partnership with Dormammu had come to naught. And yet, a team of underlings working for him...it had its appeal. To command, to forge a plan, to lead a chosen squad to conquer Strange's minions while he conquered Strange himself... 

...well, it was worth considering. 

Who offered access to the ones he needed? The ones from whom he could pick and choose a team? 

He regretted what he must do. But he would insist on his independence, negotiate terms favorable to himself, and then, when asked to pay his consideration, would renege. One did not send errand boys to collect due bills from Baron Mordo. They simply wrote off the cost--if they were wise. 

He had been approached, and had refused. Now, it was time to change one's sorcerous mind. 

The telephone, that instrument of cold science, was distasteful to him. But it had its uses. He stepped to the one he owned, perched atop a thousand-year-old grimoire bound in flesh, and dialed a long-distance number. Within a short time, he heard a voice on the other end. 

"Password," demanded the voice. 

"Fire," said Baron Mordo. 

To be continued...   



	6. Part 6:  Inhumans and Avengers

FIRE! 

A Tale of the Marvel Universe 

by DarkMark 

Part 6 

In a remote section of the Himalayas is where you would find the Great Refuge of the Inhumans. Take this information on faith. If you find it, you will not be able to enter it. 

The Red Chinese have tried several times over the past few decades, and have been beaten back every time. True, they could lob an atomic bomb at it, but that would be a waste of a bomb and would deny them the prize, the great technology to be found there and the people of great power who might be subjugated and made to serve The People. 

Besides, the bomb might not even work. There was no way of telling, with the people of the Great Refuge. 

So it must, indeed, be taken on faith that there is a Great Refuge and that Inhumans, beings of great power, live there. They are of basic human type, but have been altered in ages past by the Kree and many, possibly most, have been physically altered by immersion in the Terrigen Mist. Most of those who emerge have developed super-powers. More than a few have lost strictly human shape. 

Johnny Storm did not have to take the existence of the Inhumans on faith. He had fallen in love with Crystal of the Royal Family, and she with him. Indeed, she had done a term as a member of the Fantastic Four during Sue Richards's confinement while awaiting childbirth. There is always a direct line from the Baxter Building's video communications room to the CommuniCore system that serves the Inhumans' Family Royal. 

Black Bolt sometimes got irked when Crystal and Johnny spent too much time on it exchanging sweet nothings. But then again, he was in love himself, with Medusa of the six-foot, prehensile red hair. So a glance from her would usually convince him not to make a sign of discouragment towards her little sister. 

This night, Crystal had taken another such call from Johnny Storm, and noted his look of excitement. He blurted out to her, "Crys, I'm going back to college! And I'm leaving the FF for the duration! What do you think of that?" 

"College? Oh, you mean your place of schooling!" The Inhuman girl beamed. "This is something you want to do instead of being a super-hero, Johnny? I feel joy for you, if that is the case." 

"It's something I feel I have to do, Crys," he said, sitting back in the swivel chair Reed had designed. "It's tough to get a high-paying job without a degree in our society, and it's getting tougher. I've been in the FF all of my adult life, and, heck, that pays well. But it isn't the same thing as...well, everyday life." 

Crystal chuckled. "From what I know of your world, the FF is about as far from everyday life there as one could get. Among my people, you'd be living an everyday life." She grew a bit more somber. "Johnny, does that mean you will not be seeing me again?" 

"Oh, Crystal," he said, "don't even think about that. Honest, babe. I'll see you whenever I can. I promise. It's just that I'll have obligations, studies, a degree to work for." 

"A degree? Oh, that is a certification of learning. An authorization." 

"Yeah, an authorization. I've got to make the grade, Crys, and it'll be all up to me. This time, I'm not going to blow it. I'm going to get my diploma, just like Wyatt did. You remember Wyatt, don't you?" 

"Without question." Crystal recalled the big man who had accompanied Johnny and Lockjaw on their quest to find a way into the Refuge when it was encircled by a Negative Zone barrier of Maximus's creation. He had been a roommate of Johnny's in the college they had attended. Unlike him, he had stayed with it, and already graduated. 

Johnny Storm looked a bit more pensive. "The bit is...don't tell Reed or any of the others about this...I'm thinking of not coming back to the Fantastic Four." 

"Oh, Johnny, no! Why? You have been part of their family for, well, since they began. How can you forsake them in such a manner? It would be like me leaving my clan." 

"Yeah." Johnny paused. "I'm thinking about coming to...maybe...live with you." 

"Johnny." She barely whispered it. 

The blue-costumed youth went on. "It'll depend on a lot of things. Whether or not Black Bolt will let me in, whether or not I can stand to be out of my country, whether or not I can leave Sue and Reed and Ben behind. Also, whether or not you'll take me." 

"Take you as a...husband?" 

"Yeah," he said, only loud enough to be heard. 

"I...oh, Johnny," said Crystal, seriously. "You know what my answer would be. Of course, yes, if it were only up to myself." 

"But it isn't?" 

"No." She shook her head, in the manner she had picked up after living with the Fantastic Four for some time. "As part of the Family Royal, Black Bolt must rule on the marriage of our members. And marriage with outsiders, even one such as yourself, may prove difficult." 

"We've been through that several times before, and each time, if I recall, we convinced ol' Blacky that we were meant for each other." 

"True," she said. "Yet, for all that, we have not married." 

"There's the little problem of your pollution allergy to deal with," he pointed out. "Neither Reed nor any of your boys have figured out a way around that yet." 

"No, not yet," Crystal agreed. "But answer me this, Johnny: if you so wish to love me, if you wish to marry me and live among us, why do you feel the need to go to your college? Would it not be easier to simply come now, and see what may be done?" 

The Torch was silent for a long moment, his mouth open. Then he said, slowly, "Because I'm covering all my bases, Crystal. I want to get those two letters after my name, in case I'm not able to make it in your world. I want them for myself, too. I want to be more than just a member of the Fantastic Four." 

"And more," she said, "than just my lover." 

"You know I'll always want that," he said, and she believed him. 

"Well, then," said Crystal, "what can I say?" 

"Say that you'll wait for me," he said. "And that when I come, you'll be there for me." 

"This will take long?" 

"Only about two years." 

"That can be a long time," she said. "But perhaps not too long. If you will be there for me, Johnny, then I will try to be there for you. I know that I want to be." 

"I'll try and see you as often as I can, Crys," said Johnny, leaning towards the camera. "I'll try to make it between enrollment and the start of classes. That is...if I'm welcome there." 

"You are more welcome than any of your race, save for Reed, Ben, and Susan," said Crystal. "I will speak to Black Bolt." 

"Thank you, Crys. Thank you a whole lot." 

She saw him lean even closer and then only saw the front of his uniform, and, finally, a darkened screen. In response, she hugged her monitor, as well. It was a ritual they had performed many times and, in the abscence of human flesh to hug, it served as well as it could. 

When she released it, she saw only the hold-pattern that signified no transmissions were coming through. 

How many years had she known him? She counted. From the last year of Maximus's reign to the sixth of Black Bolt's second, going on the seventh. Seven years. Now, it would be nine years before they could be married, if they could manage that at all. 

Still, if that was what it took, there was nothing to do but wait. She had learned that art well when the Inhumans were trapped behind Maximus's Negative Zone barrier. 

Perhaps Reed Richards or one of the Inhumans' biologists would devise a cure for her allergic condition. That would enable her to go to Johnny in her times of leave. But even if that were not the case, he would see her when he could. The important thing was that Johnny was building himself a life of his own. 

And he was going to include her in it, as well. 

She danced out of the palace to tell her family the good news. Once outside its walls, her mien sobered. 

The Great Refuge was being repaired from the damages wrought on it by Maximus during his brief and terrible recent reign. He had developed mental controlling powers, used them to induce amnesia in Black Bolt for a time, taken over the Refuge again, and almost turned the Inhuman race over to the hated Kree to use as soldiers in their war with the Skrulls. The rest of the Royal Family had been turned out, save for Crystal, who had been brainwashed temporarily by Diablo. Then Black Bolt had returned with the Avengers, freed his people from Maximus's domination, and saw his brother returned to madness and impotency. 

Once again, they had to rebuild. 

The Family was standing near a large, half-broken stone wall carved with the work of a long-dead artist. Karnak was planted before the wall with his head bowed towards it, his eyes closed, his body motionless. The others stood in a half-circle about him. The ends of Medusa's six-foot red hair twitched in impatience, though her arms were folded. Triton, his green, fish-scaled body gleaming in the morning sun, stood and breathed heavily, his life sustained by the nutrient fluid pumped through the plastic tubing on his shoulders and arms. Black Bolt stood almost as impassively as Karnak, his black-clad arms folded, taller than any of them save Gorgon. And Gorgon himself, masked, massive, and powerful, was having trouble waiting. 

"Karnak, you've been standing there for seven minutes," he snapped. 

Medusa looked at him. "Be silent, Gorgon. Now." 

He gave her a surly look, though he loved and respected her as a relative. Gorgon was a man of action, and too little action started his hooves twitching. 

As quietly as possible, Crystal sidled up to the family and whispered in Medusa's ear, "I have the most wonderful news about Johnny." 

Her sister whispered back, "Very good. But tell us in a moment, Crystal. Karnak is concentrating." 

The girl shaded her eyes with one hand and waited for the deadliest of the Royal Family to end his trance. 

Finally, Karnak's head came up. Without a word, he stepped over to a spot six paces north of where he had been standing. His foot came down firmly in the dirt and left a print. Karnak stepped back and pointed. 

"Here," he said to Gorgon. 

Gorgon sighed and went to the place. "Whenever you're ready, cousin," he said. 

Karnak went to the wall and stationed himself beside it, his hand, pent by a metal band that encircled it just below the fingers, flattened and ready for a chop. Black Bolt stood on the other side, just beyond the wall's edge. 

Medusa said, "Very well, then. On my signal. Now!" 

At that, Gorgon stamped his mighty hoof. 

Shock waves penetrated the ground, causing a localized earthquake. Crystal gasped and clutched at her sister's arm for support. No matter how many times she felt his power, she could never get used to the ground shaking underneath her. 

At the same time, Karnak's hand bladed out and struck the wall at a certain place, sending an impact that cracked it just below the time-worn carvings, sending a fissure that cleaved the stone its entire length. 

An instant afterward, Black Bolt's outraised hands shot forth twin streams of energy, manipulating free electrons and their charges, creating a short-lived cylinder of force that bore the falling wall on itself, buoying it up for a moment, then ceasing to exist. The wall fell with a lesser impact than it would have unobstructed. 

Triton smiled. "An admirable feat of engineering, Karnak. The entire panorama of Kleth is intact." 

"Was that not my intention?" said Karnak, impassively. 

Black Bolt's open right hand sought the sky in his sign of approval. Thanks to the incredibly destructive power of his voice, he had to communicate in nonverbal fashion. To those who saw him, it was as good as being given an award of merit. 

Crystal couldn't hold herself back anymore. "Black Bolt, Medusa, all of you, listen! I've just spoken with Johnny Storm and he's given me fabulous news. He is attending a place of knowledge for the next two years for an Authorization. After that..." She gulped, regained her breath, and plowed on. "After that, he wants to come here and marry me!" 

The news was met by silence. And not just from Black Bolt. 

Triton said, tentatively, "This is news that must be most pleasing to you, Crystal. And as it surrounds your heart in warm waters, so should it do for mine." 

Medusa's arm went about her sister's shoulders. "What did you tell him, little one?" 

Crystal had trouble finding her voice. When she did, she said, "Well, I...I told him that I would have to ask Black Bolt, and at any rate, it would have to wait for two years while he was learning. I...did not presume to...to speak for you, my cousin." 

It was impossible for Gorgon to sneak up on anyone. She heard his hoofbeats as she was talking. He stood before her and bent down a bit to face her. "Little Crystal, we know--we could not help but know--what you and Johnny Storm feel for each other. Nonetheless, you know the enjoinment on mixing genes with the Outside, even if it is one such as he. Especially the genetic matrix of the line of Agon." 

Crystal said, more fiercely than she wanted to, "The house of Agon has mixed genes with many other families! We don't turn out inbred idiots!" 

"Crystal, if you want Black Bolt's sympathies, watch your tone," warned Medusa. 

Karnak spoke. "Marriage with Outsiders is not without precedent, but is undertaken with great caution. We have allowed you great latitude in this matter, Crystal." 

She wheeled on him. "You thought I'd get him out of my system by having a fling with him? Was that what you thought?" 

Medusa was silent. Triton, after a pause, said, "Well, it was not certain, Crystal, but..." 

"Do you find it so impossible that I might actually be in love with him? Even if he is an Outsider? And he has powers greater than any the Terrigen Mist could probably have given him. To the Outsiders, he might just as well be an Inhuman." 

"Show some respect for tradition, Crystal," rumbled Gorgon. "You are one of the Family Royal, despite what you think. You are expected to behave as one of the Family Royal." 

"I believe my behavior and decorum matches yours any day, Old Ironhooves," spat Crystal, her hands on her hips. "Also, I am acting as a woman does when she is in love." 

"Yes," retorted Gorgon. "As a complete idiot." 

"Gorgon!" 

Both turned to look at Medusa. "If both of you would be silent, then Black Bolt can communicate what he thinks of the entire matter. Thus, I suggest you both shut your mouths and look at him." 

Blackagor Boltagon, as he was formally known, looked upon both of them with a face intentionally hard to read. The folded membrane under his arms shifted slightly in the breeze. After a moment, his arm came up. 

There was so much to read in one of his gestures, if one knew how. 

The black-gloved hand stopped at shoulder level, parallel to the ground. Slowly, its five fingers splayed to their fullest extent, and remained thus for five seconds. 

Then hand and arm dropped, and Black Bolt showed them his back and trudged off. 

The gesture meant: The matter is taken into consideration. 

Neither approval nor disapproval were signalled. The other Inhumans watched their leader crouch, leap, and hurl himself into the air, catching the wind on his arm-membranes, and flying. 

Ostensibly, he was headed to another section of the Refuge that needed renovation. But all of them knew he was doing it to avoid being pressed further. 

Crystal stood silent, breathing deeply, and wondering if she had been stupid to act as she did. Her sister Medusa hugged her tightly with one arm, and stroked the side of her face with a twisting curl of her hair. 

"Do not push him more at present, little sister," said Medusa, gently. "He has not yet disallowed it. In that, you have won somewhat of a victory today." 

Looking at the dot in the sky that was Black Bolt, Crystal said, "I hope so, Medusa. By all the genes of Agon, I certainly hope so." 

-M- 

Hank and Jan Pym never could stay away from Avengers Mansion for very long, and that was hunky dory by Clint Barton. 

After all, the three of them had been core members for a darned long time, starting back when Jan got herself kidnapped by the Collector, which resulted in Hank resuming his super-hero status after a short retirement, with a new costume and a new name, Goliath. Times had changed since then, with Hank retiring his giant-size powers in favor of the costume and shrinking powers of Ant-Man, and Clint going from Hawkeye to Goliath and then back to Hawkeye. But Jan was still the Wasp, as she'd always been, and all of them were still friends. 

"So the thing is, she goes and falls in love with the Vision," Hawkeye was saying, seated in front of a cup of coffee on the rec room table. "I mean, can you put that in your loop, Hank? A freakin' synthezoid, and she falls in love with him. I saw it!" 

Jan smiled, sitting there in a red Wasp costume with blue trim. "Maybe she goes for the tall, red, and enigmatic type, Clint. Besides, with that kind of guy, she'll never have to worry about getting pregnant." 

Hank Pym rested his head in both hands. "Oh, Jan. Trust you to find that kind of angle on it!" 

She favored him with a grin. "Hey, I found an angle on a stuffy ol' biochemist who never got out of his lab coat unless he was tooling around with a bunch of ants, didn't I?" 

"Yeah, well..." Clint's hands found the cup and he chugged down the last half of the coffee within it. "It just points up how lousy my luck's been with women. You'd think it'd be easy for me, right, guys? I mean, heap big Avenger, making pretty decent bucks, not exactly a low-profile position, and I do have chicks wanting my autograph when we make public appearances, I mean, you know that." 

"We know it, Clint," said Hank. "But go ahead." 

"But I had a big thing for Natasha, and then she left, and, like, there was nobody but Wanda around. So I tried to get something going with her. But that was like back in the old days, Cap's Kookie Quartet, and she just put me down as a smartmouth." 

"Which you were, Clint," said Jan. "Let's face it." 

"Well, yeah, but a nice smartmouth. I would'a thought she'd see through the Jerry Lewis to the Errol Flynn beneath, know what I mean? But it didn't work that way. They left, they came back, and I still was hoping for something to heat up. The only other girl on the team was you, Jan, and you and Hank were practically joined at the antennae." 

Janet Van Dyne giggled. 

"But while Ronan had us captured awhile back, I saw Vizh and her trying to kiss, and I went, Oh man, that's it for me, she's found herself a guy, even if he is made out of plastic." 

"Well, plastic and fiber and a good deal of metal and wiring," said Hank Pym, who, thanks to a recent journey, knew the Vision inside and out. "Plus some energy-forms and other stuff it's hard to describe to a layman. But I know what you mean." 

"You're too literal, Hank," chided Jan. 

"Now, even he doesn't know how to handle it, but he's learning," said Hawkeye. "And if it makes her happy, great. But that leaves me out in the cold again. And 'Tasha..." Clint sighed, and settled back in his Formica chair. "'Tasha said she never loved me." 

"Clint." Jan looked him straight in the eye. "She lied." 

"How do you know, Waspie? The only ones there in the room when she said it was her and me." 

"Have you ever been a woman, Clint? We know the territory. I saw you and Natasha together. She did love you, Clint, but it just didn't seem to be enough for her. You know the phrase the kids use these days? 'I have to find myself'? Well, I think that's what she had to do. She had to go out and see what kind of a life she could make on her own. And sometimes, when a person does that...she even leaves behind the guy she loves." 

Hank Pym's hand found hers, and her fingers went around his in reassurance. 

"Oh. Great," said Hawkeye. "She loved me, but she left me anyway. And now she's hooked up with Daredevil, from all reports." 

Jan shrugged. "Seems to be. You need to find somebody else, Clint. Done any looking?" 

"Uh, not exactly," he admitted. 

"Want to see if I can fix you up with somebody?" 

"Jan, please," Hank said. "I'm sure Hawk can handle his own affairs." 

"If he could handle them, Henry Pym, he'd be out having one right now. Well, Clint, what about it?" 

"Who did you have in mind?" asked Hawkeye. 

"I don't know," she admitted. "But I can darned well find someone. I didn't exactly live in a cloister, until I hooked up with this guy." 

"Yeah," he said, wryly. "I'm still not sure why you stayed with me after we blitzed the Creature from Kosmos." An instant later he said, "Sorry, Jan. My brain was lagged about a half-second behind my mouth. Lousy signal-to-noise ratio." 

Jan's expression showed a bit of sorrow. She remembered the adventure that had brought her and Hank together, the one in which an alien had killed her father, the one in which she had become the Wasp. "It's all right, Hank. Believe me, it's all right." 

"Yeah, well," said Hank. "Listen, Clint, we'll be glad to double-date with you if Jan can hustle up some company. Would you like to do that?" 

The man in the purple mask considered it. "Well, yeah, might not be a bad thing, all considered. Just make sure we go to a place where we can't be disturbed by super-villains with a grudge, okay?" 

"Count on it," said Hank. 

As if on cue, two others entered the room. One of them through a door, the other through a wall. 

The former was the Scarlet Witch, mutant superheroine, the brown-haired beauty in the tight red-and-pink outfit, whose hex power had confounded the Avengers' enemies and, a life earlier, made things harder for the X-Men when she stood with Magneto. She had been an Avenger since the second configuation of the team, and was an honored member. 

The second was the Vision, a green-and-gold costumed, red-skinned android, whose bodily density could be altered to allow him to penetrate solid objects unharmed at its lowest setting, or to shatter them with diamond hardness at its highest. He seemed cold and as precise as the calculations of his computer brain, but those who knew him well knew that he had emotions. And one of the ones he had prominently displayed recently was that of love. 

"Good evening, you three," said Wanda. "Why are my ears burning? Are you updating Hank and Jan on the latest gossip, Clint?" 

Hawkeye looked sheepish. "Aw, just kinda keeping them informed, Wanda." 

The Vision stood side-by-side with the woman he had come to care for. "I hardly find it a thing to be concealed, Hawkeye, except from the world at large--for now," he said, in a near-sepulchral voice. "My love for Wanda seems an eminently logical thing, given the parameters." 

Janet Van Dyne played her fingers on Hank Pym's tousled pate. "Did I ever tell you, Vizh, that you remind me of this guy, somehow? If I think hard enough, I'll put my finger on it. I know I will." 

The Vision, arms crossed, considered it. "Is this intended as a joke? I will respond with appropriate approval, if such is the case." 

"Never mind, Vizh," said Wanda, seating herself at the table. "It's great not to have a Skrull-Kree War or the armies of Olympus in front of us, for once. It's nice just to be able to get together and talk." 

"Hey, keep talkin' like that and you'll jinx us, Witchie," said Clint. "It's like talkin' about a no-hitter while you're having one." 

"Okay. Let's wait," said Wanda. For five seconds, they were silent. Then she said, "Well? See any super-villains?" 

"Not within ocular or aurally perceptible distance," allowed the Vision. 

Hawkeye rested his elbows on the table and looked somber. "Maybe not, Vizh. But I've been an Avenger long enough to know. We never get peace very long here. Just respites." 

There was more silence as the others fumbled for a reply. Finally, Jan said, "Anybody for a movie? It's kinda late, but I think we could make the second show of Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice." 

"Sister Diane at the orphanage would beat me bloody if she knew I'd seen that movie," grumbled Hawkeye. 

"I won't tell her, Hank," Jan reassured him. 

Nothing else presented itself, so the five of them (the Vision donning a disguise) went out in civvies for burgers and then for the movie. 

No super-villains attacked during the entire picture, which Clint counted as a mixed blessing. 

-M- 

Elsewhere in New York, a meeting was taking place. 

Dr. Otto Octavius had reassembled the members of his old organization, the Sinister Six. It consisted of himself, Kraven the Hunter, the Sandman, the Vulture, Mysterio, and Electro. The problem was that, since then, two of the others had joined other bands of operatives in their lines of work, and their associates had to be invited as well. 

So along came the Sandman's friends in the Frightful Four, which, lacking a fourth member, were the Wizard and the Trapster. Octavius had made the mistake of calling the latter "Paste-Pot Pete" at first, and the Sandman had to wrap his elongated, grainy arms about his partner to restrain him. 

And then there were Electro's Emissaries of Evil, which comprised a number of foes of that Spider-Man wannabe, Daredevil. They were, he prompted himself, the Gladiator, the Matador, and the Leap Frog. The Stilt-Man was supposed to have made it, but he'd gone off to try and bag DD himself and gotten captured. 

Mentally, Octavius shrugged. No big loss. The others were there mainly as a courtesy to Electro. 

"It's settled, then?" he asked the others. "We're going ahead with this, as a unit?" 

The Wizard regarded him with what looked like professional disdain. "We need the money," he said. "And if it works as intended, our problems with the competiton should be over afterward." 

Electro said, "Our group agrees, Doc. Go ahead and make the call." 

"Very well, then." One of his metallic, many-jointed arms reached across the room for a phone and, in casual fashion, brought it back. His right human hand dialed the telephone, as his middle artificial one held the receiver to his ear. 

He waited stolidly for the connection to be made. Then: 

"Password." 

"Fire," said Dr. Octopus. 

To be continued...   



	7. Part 7:  X Marks

FIRE! 

A Tale of the Marvel Universe 

by DarkMark 

Part 7 

"Let us try that again, Havok," said Professor Xavier. "Calvin, commence firing." 

"Wait," said Alex Summers, holding up a hand wearily. "Just wait. I'm tired, Prof. Give me a–" 

But before he could finish, a barrage of light-force beams was triggered from the three walls surrounding him. Havok, in his black uniform with the white power discs on the chest, was sweaty, tired, and not in a good humor. Xavier had been putting him through his paces for over an hour. 

He avoided three blasts, got tagged by a fourth, felt its bee sting, and slagged it with a pinpoint blast of his spheres of power. 

Then Havok felt another of the blasts from behind him, right in the small of his back. He whirled, blasted the small projector from which it had come, and lay flat on the deck in time to avoid another, but not the one which came after it. 

He began to get mad. 

The dampness on his underarms showed through even despite the black of his uniform. Havok rose to his feet, taking more blasts while he did it. He raised both his arms, pointed them at opposite walls, and emitted a loud, harsh shout. From his fingers, there exploded a series of glowing white power-spheres, forming two rough beams that smashed into the walls and shattered them. He whirled and did the same to the third. Sparks. Smoke. Power failure. 

He stood there, arms still raised, panting. 

A voice came from the intercom. "Grade: F." 

"Shut it, X," said Havok. "Just shut it." 

A door-section of the Danger Room retracted into the wall. Lorna Dane, in her green uniform and green hair, and Banshee, the Irish mutant in green and yellow, were there. "Alex," said Lorna. "It's all right. Let me help." 

"It is not all right," said Havok, his arms lowered and tensed. "It will never be all right as long as Big Charley keeps riding me!" 

"Havok," said the voice of Charles Xavier on the intercom. "Your pain is regrettable, but it will pass. Please believe me. What I have given you in this session is much less than an enemy would give you in the field. Therefore, you must strive to excel. You must perfect your abilities. The unhoned knife is no better than a club of metal. The untrained warrior–" 

"I'm not Cyclops," said Havok, looking at the floor. "You want me to be Scott, and I'M NOT CYCLOPS!" 

"Oh, god," said Lorna, dully. 

"Alex, meboy, the Professor's only puttin' ya through basic training," said Sean Cassidy, putting an arm on Alex's shoulders. "It's no more than the rest of us have ta go. An' all the ones from before." 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, I've heard it, Sean," grated Havok. "But I'm darned if I'm going to be a stand-in for Scotty, even if everybody seems to want me to." 

"Nobody wants you to be anything but what you are, Alex," said Lorna, putting her hands on either side of her face. "Nobody wants you to be anything but you." 

He sighed, then favored each of them with an arm about them. "Tell that to Big Charlie up there," he said. "See if he agrees with you. I never wanted to be a super-hero. It just happened, that was all." 

"An' ya think that it was any different with us, lad?" said Banshee. 

The two of them were gently walking the sweaty Alex Summers out of the Danger Room. The three of them made up three-fifths of the New X-Men, the team formed by Charles Xavier after the original five heroes had left. They hadn't seen as much action as the first team, the one composed of Cyclops, Angel, Beast, Iceman, and Marvel Girl, had in their first two years. That was because, in Xavier's judgment and their own, they didn't hang together as well as his first unit. 

But they had performed, and managed to defeat the menaces they faced. They were improving. The only question was: could their enemies wait much longer for the learning curve to point upward at a steeper angle? 

Charles Xavier sighed as he watched them from his catbird seat in the observation booth. He had been hard to his first five pupils, and his lessons had taken. With these five, he had tried to be more human. Was that the problem? 

"Havok has reached his present limitations," said Sunfire, beside him. "Which seem no further than the ones reached in his last testing." 

"That will be enough," said Xavier. "Any evaluation of test performance will be left to me. Join your teammates, Sunfire." 

The Japanese mutant arose from his seat with a perceptible arrogance and exited the room. Xavier looked after him a second, and hoped he could keep his poker face as intact as he usually did. 

True, Angel in the original group had been conceited. But a lot of that had been rubbed off by working with his teammates. Warren Worthington III had never had the sense of superiority that Toshiro Watanabe possessed, though. The arrogance of race, of caste, of nationality, and, yes, of genetics. Xavier had tried to work that out of him, but Toshiro took all that Xavier could pile on him in the Danger Room and asked for more. 

It was that arrogance Xavier had used to trick him (yes, trick was the operative word) into joining the second X-Men grouping. The initial arguments that Professor X had used had been rebuffed, as was expected. Sunfire had no interest in fighting the dangers which threatened the world as part of an American super-team. He had little but contempt for America. He was Japan's hero, their first super-hero since World War II. He would remain such, and the X-Men would have to look elsewhere. 

But when Xavier acknowledged that such was his right, and perhaps Toshiro wasn't up to the challenge...after all, how many world-conquering super-menaces based themselves in Japan these days? Or was one thinking, perhaps, of Godzilla?...then a light of anger arose in the solar samurai's eyes. 

Professor X kept on in that vein, gently but skillfully, playing Toshiro as a fish on a line, albeit a fish who suspects he is on the line and yet can't tear the hook from his mouth, even though he has the power. What! Imply that one of the Sons of Nippon was unworthy of a gaijin super-team? That the chosen one of the islands was somehow less than the American money-mongering variety of mutant? It was not to be done! If Xavier required proof of that, Sunfire was ready to provide it. He would provide it by putting all the rest of his so-called team in the shadow. The shadow of the sun. 

It had taken a bit of fancy dancing to manage Sunfire's transfer to the United States. After all, he had killed the man who had taken the life of his father, on American soil. But with some help from Amos Duncan at the FBI, who was eager to deputize a second klatch of X-Men, the deed was done. It took an application of the "Hawkeye Clause", introduced when the first ex-super-villain joined the Avengers, but it was done. 

The main thing was that, for all his arrogance and difficulty in handling, Toshiro was easily one of the best team players in the group. His heritage might have had something to do with it, but Xavier suspected that Sunfire just saw himself as a samurai. Samurai served their feudal lord, and Toshiro probably placed Xavier in that role, no matter what he thought of the gaijin personally. 

And sometimes he didn't hide those thoughts too well. 

But what a contrast was the man who entered the control room after Toshiro had left. The Mimic, Cal Rankin. Easily the most insufferable member of the pack in his short-lived X-Men tenure when he had first joined, and now? Troubled, agonized, capable of performance, but racked with tension and self-doubt. As he had reason to be. 

When Xavier had approached him to rejoin, the Mimic had told him the reason why. 

"It's my mimic-powers," he said. "It gets harder to control 'em, the older I get. Sometimes I...I have to really fight to keep from copyin' everyone around me. The power wants 'em, Prof. It wants to mimic everyone. I have to go off by myself and release it, lots of times. Like...you know. Like sex." 

"I understand, Cal," said Xavier, and he hoped he did. 

"So what do I do? So what do I do?" Cal Rankin was almost on his knees as he asked it. 

Xavier put his hands on Calvin's shoulders. "Listen to me, Cal. I will do what is in my power to help you. I will attempt to set up mental blocks, avenues down which to direct your power to greater use. I will teach you meditation techniques. I will teach you self-discipline, the kind which is anything but a cliche, the kind that works because you make it work. But I must have you in the group to do it, Cal. I must have you as an X-Man, and not just as the dilettante you were before. This time, you must be one of the group, and function as such. And, in turn, I will be your tutor, and your friend. Think well on your answer, Cal, for it is no small thing." 

"Professor, I'll do anything," said the Mimic. "I'll do it. In spades." 

And Xavier had nodded, and had offered his hand. The Mimic took it and shook it. 

To his credit, he resisted the urge to copy Xavier's power. 

-X- 

The five of them sat at the fire Toshiro had ignited from the fallen wood from the forest and held the hotdogs on sticks over it. Ritual. 

None of them was wearing a costume now, and all of them seemed grateful for it. 

"'Scuse me, guys, there's something I need to take care of," said Cal, and moved off into the woods. 

"It's okay, Cal, we understand," said Lorna, and tried not to listen for the cry of near-pain that would inevitably be heard sometime later. 

Banshee swirled the whiskey about in his ale jack. "The lad may be the stoutest of us all, in the end," he offered. "What with that thing inside o' him, bangin' around like a boyo in a damned man's cell." 

"Sometimes," said Alex Summers, looking into the fire, "it isn't much different with me." Lorna Dane stroked his arm sympathetically. 

"You are more the warrior," opined Toshiro. "He is the wounded man. His powers are only what he borrows from others. Someday the borrowing will kill him." 

"Toshi, that's a terrible thing to say," said Lorna, giving him a stony look. 

"It would only be terrible if it were not true," said the Japanese youth, giving it back. 

"That's enough, the both of yez," said Sean, sounding very much like a cop, which he had been. "That's enough, and a measure more than. You feel like apologizin', Sunny, or do you leave the gatherin'?" 

Toshiro, in his shirtsleeves and jeans, met the Irishman's gaze for a moment, then said, "My regrets if my remarks have caused undue pain." 

"It'd be more appropriate if'n ya remembered not to make 'em before ya set your tongue slingin' like a flappin' door in the wind," said Sean. "Smart-mouthin' where I come from has lost many a man the usual contours of his face. Get me?" 

"In my land, it has often lost many a man his head," said Toshiro. "At least in times past. Forgive me, Banshee." He did not look as though he wanted to be forgiven. 

But Sean let the matter pass. 

"As if any of this mattered," said Alex. "As if a freaking bit of any of it mattered." 

"It matters, Alex," said Lorna. "It matters to the people we've saved, the ones who think of us as heroes, and to us, ourselves. If you think you can't be proud of what we've done, you're kidding yourself. And you're not kidding me." 

"That's not it, Lorna," said Alex, picking the seared hot dog off his stick and throwing it over his shoulder without a look. "We don't function at the level that matters." 

"Oh?" Sean Cassidy settled himself against the bole of a tree, and crossed his arms on his chest. "Perhaps then you could tell me what that level could be, Alex." 

Alex toyed with the stick, drawing patterns in the dirt. "Look at the world we live in, Sean. I mean, take a look at it. The Vietnam thing, it's been going on for what, nine years? We lose a hundred men a day in that. Tears the country apart, then folds it up and tears it into littler pieces. Tell me that isn't more important than what we do." 

"It's a different thing, lad, and ya know it." 

"Then the race thing," said Alex. "Ten years ago, the Klan was killing Freedom Riders and black people were having problems just getting into white schools or white stores. Now it's the whites who live in fear of the Black Panthers. Yeah, there's been progress for them, a lot. But they're just as capable of evil as us. What good are we against any of that?" 

"What good are you supposed to be?" said Toshiro, with a touch of annoyance. "Aren't the causes of these things in people's hearts? We cannot fight those things as if they were Magneto." 

"And that's the point!" Alex turned on him in a fury. "Our limitations. All we're good for is fighting somebody in a funny suit. The real problems, war, hate, pollution, overpopulation, hell, put in anything you like there, we can't do anything about 'em. We can't hold the country together. It's coming apart at the seams, and there's no super-power that can do a thing about that." 

Lorna released his arm and ran her hands through her hair, pushing it back from her shoulders. "And while you're at it, honey, why don't you ask us if we could sweep the beach at Coney Island free of sand if you gave us all brooms? If you don't mind a little Lewis Carroll reference there." 

"Again, what would you have us do, Alex?" said Toshiro. "Fight in Vietnam? Break into the boardrooms of corporations and force them to do what we want? Attack protestors? Use my solar powers against your Black Panthers? What?" 

"Maybe none of that," said Alex. "And maybe some of that." 

Sean Cassidy came to hunker down before Alex. "So. Ya think your country's so unique, laddy? You suppose that these things comin' down on America have never happened to another'n? Is that what you think?" 

"I didn't say that," said Alex. "All I'm saying is–" 

"Have ye ever seen a movie called 'The Informer'? Or is it too old for ya? Maybe you've never heard the phrase 'Up the Rebels'? Or heard about the Black 'n' Tans, or maybe Michael Collins? And I'm not talkin' about anybody what walked on the freakin' moon when I say that name. Are those names too old for ya, Alex? Well, maybe I can give ya one ya will recognize: Belfast." 

"Sean, I know about Belfast," said Alex. "But it's not the same as here." 

"Nothing's ever 'the same as here,' boyo, but it's similar. We've been undergoin' the Troubles in Ireland for most of a century. And yet, we're still here. Or at least, still there. We've had political maniacs, religious bigots, assassinations, occupation, whatever ya want, we've got. Still got 'em, for the most part. Yet, for a' that, Ireland still stands. Somehow, I suspect not even she knows how she does it. But she manages. 

"Now, from what limited knowledge I have of this country, Alex, seems to me that your present Troubles are s'posed to have started around the assassination a' John Kennedy, God bless his name and rest his soul, am I right?" 

"That's the general perception," said Alex. "Mine, too. If only that hadn't happened, maybe this wouldn't have, either." 

"Ah, but boyo, there ye're wrong. Seems as though, for ten years at least, and probably more, beforehand, ya had a fine and stable nation. But only on the surface. Below it, just like the rage o' the Rebels against the English, ya had a bunch of resentment breedin'. Blacks 'n' whites, sure. But seems ta me nobody thought to ask the young folk what they thought about what they were bein' handed, either. If'n they wanted that two-car garage an' that house in the bleedin' suburbs and the mortgage payments, and the War." 

"Nobody asked us that, Sean," said Lorna. "Nobody thought to. Maybe they thought they didn't have to." 

"An' that's the whole problem, Miss Lorna. Smug ya were, an' thinkin' ya had a little Utopia here what would always be the same, or perhaps, God willing, better. Ya never banked on the possibility that things might not work out that way. That they might, in point o' fact, get worse." 

"They ignored the things they did not wish to see," said Toshiro, "because they were too satisfied with the things they were allowed to see." 

Lorna was silent, as was Alex. 

"There's loads of other nations would be glad to trade places with the States right now, though were I you, I would na' make the deal," Cassidy went on. "All those lands what the Commies got under their boot, for example. But that's not even takin' inta account all those little dictatorships down south of yez, which Uncle Sam helps prop up 'cause they help 'em fight Breshnev and his boys." 

"There's a reason for that, and you know it," said Alex. "The same reason why we aided Stalin in World War II. Strategy." 

"Didn't say there wasn't," said Sean. "But they're dictatorships nonetheless, and some of 'em quite brutal. Wouldja go fightin' them, now? Or perhaps tryin' to liberate the Iron Curtain countries? Or just go after anyone doin' somethin' ya didn't like?" 

"You're playing with words, Irish," Alex retorted. 

"Sometimes it's better to play with words than with actions," said Sean. "Do nae take that as a threat. But think upon it." 

"Okay. Okay, I'll just..." Alex sighed. "It just seems impossible, Sean. I'm supposed to be a surrogate Scott, and I'm not. We're supposed to be carbons of the old X-Men, and we're not." 

"That's not what Professor Xavier wants, Alex," said Lorna. "He wants us to be as good as the old X-Men, but he doesn't want us to be them. At least, that's what I think." 

"Also, he does not refer to you as 'students'," pointed out Toshiro. "He allows us to live outside the Mansion, except for Sean, who chooses to stay there." 

"It isn't a question of 'allows', Toshi," said Alex. "Lorna and I flat out wouldn't live there. We've got our own lives. Scotty told us to keep our own space, and he was right." 

"But he's changed a bit, from the old days," said Sean. "Some of it's to the good. I knew him much longer'n you, and I know what a task it was for him ta do that." 

"So what're you really saying, back of all this, Alex?" Lorna faced him, point blank. "Do you want to leave the X-Men? Is that what this is all coming down to?" 

"No," Alex admitted. "At least, not yet. Maybe I just want to see if we...if I...can really cut it, the way Scotty and the rest did. Mostly, it's you, Lorna." 

"I'd go with you if you left," she said. "You know that, Alex." 

"And I appreciate it. But if everything comes apart around us...what good is there in being an X-Man?" 

Toshiro said, "Exactly the same as there always was. The good of being the man who stands at the center, and strives to make it hold." 

There was silence for a time. 

"What about you, Toshi?" asked Lorna. "What's your take on this?" 

He shrugged. "A different country. Were it mine, I would be more concerned. As it is, I hope it does come through the present difficulty, considering how it and Japan are presently bound together. But America, at least, has been spared the experience of a nuclear bombing. Twice." 

"It has that," said Alex. "So far." 

"Which was, in many ways, not as devastating as what happened to us directly afterward," Toshiro said. "They lost their god." 

"Oh," said Lorna. "The Emperor, you mean." 

"Yes." 

Alex finally said, "You said, 'they.' What about–" 

"I have not lost my god, Alex. Never." 

They listened to the crackle of the fire around the hot dogs for awhile, some of them wondering idly if there would be anything left worth eating. 

There was a cry of fury and anguish from the woods. The four of them looked in its direction. 

In a few moments, Cal Rankin, looking sweaty and somewhat spent, staggered into the circle of light. He was sweaty and his clothes sported grass stains and some mud. 

"Sorry," he said. "Did I miss anything?" 

"Nothing much," said Lorna, taking her stick from the fire and holding it out. "Have a hot dog." 

-M- 

In San Francisco, Bobby Drake worked as an accountant, and Hank McCoy was a chemist for Stark Laboratories. Neither of them had much occasion to use their Iceman or Beast identities, though they got together at least once a week. They had been tempted to don the costumes again with the new influx of villains in the Bay Area, but Daredevil, the Black Widow, and even once the Inhumans seemed to be coping with the current crop. So they left their uniforms in the closet. 

In Ector, New York, the married team of Cyclops and Marvel Girl fought crime, worked in their respective jobs, and raised their kids. 

In Worthington Industries, Warren Worthington III was kept busy as CEO and had left off fighting super-villains in favor of tending to his family. But he still got out on the weekends with Candy Sothern, donned his uniform, and took to the skies for hours at a time as the Angel. 

All of them had met the new X-Men team, had congratulated them, and had shared their experiences of working under Xavier. But none of them offered to come back to the fold. 

They had left that part of their lives behind. 

-M- 

In the nation of Wakanda, King T'Challa was almost dressed for the occasion at hand. All but for his mask. 

Taku, his communications officer, rapped on the open door with his hand. "My chieftain." 

"Come in, Taku," said the Black Panther, taking his mask from a table by his elaborate dressing-stand. He placed it on his head, fastened the clasps at the neck, adjusted it. The lenses in his mask, made of one-way glass, obscured even his eyes to those who looked upon him now. "Come in, and bring me good news." 

"If the fact that your ship is charged and ready to take you to Manhattan is good news, then I bring you that," said the other. Taku was almost as tall as T'Challa, but he wore the more usual Wakandan male outfit, including a tunic, kilt-like garment, sandals, sash, and male jewelry. Plus he had a headset and microphone apparatus on his head, and carried a control device in his right hand. 

The Panther turned and regarded Taku. "Then you believe that is less than good news," he said. 

Diplomatically, Taku said, "What I believe is of little import, my chieftain. What our people believe is of supreme importance, and, you will forgive me for saying this–" 

"Say it." 

"–I have had more contact with them than you, of late." 

T'Challa looked at his aide. It was true, to an extent. He had been back in Wakanda to do the business of kingship for the last few months. But for years before that, he had been in New York, as an Avenger. Now he was going back again. But adventuring with his old friends was only part of the lure. 

The main part of it was a woman. 

"Then what do they say, Taku? Or, more importantly, what do you think they say?" 

"It is said that your constant abscences from the homeland are not good, my chieftain." 

"But they have been good for the world, and for the nation, in that my Avengers duties raise the profile and estimation of Wakanda in the world's eyes," said T'Challa. "Say on." 

"It is said that you grow distant from the people, and from the difficulties they face with modernization." 

"I strive to remain in touch with the people, Taku, as much as I am able. You have seen that." 

"Yes, my chieftain, I have." 

"And modernization is an onus on many nations, but it is a burden which we have no choice not to bear. We are, after all, part of the 20th Century." 

"But, my chieftain, some wish to choose which parts of the century they will accept, and which to leave alone." 

"As do I," said the Black Panther. "As do I. Is there more?" 

"There are rumors, my chieftain, unfounded, perhaps, of dissidents led by a rebel in the hills. A mysterious person known by the unlikely name of Killmonger." 

The Panther turned and fixed him with a gaze. "And have you found the truth or falsity of these rumors?" 

"No, my chieftain. Not yet."   
"Then do so. And if you cannot, when I return, I will." 

"And when will that be, my chieftain?" 

"Soon. Hopefully soon. The communicator, Taku." 

Without a word, Taku handed over the box in his right hand. It had a small television screen in one end of it. T'Challa thumbed a switch, twisted a volume control. After a few moments, the face of Monica Lynne appeared in color on the screen. "Hello, I'm in, it's good to hear from you, and I haven't got a lot of time," she said. 

Taku blanched, inwardly. Of all the people he knew, only Miss Lynne could get away with talking to the king of Wakanda that way. At least, to his face. 

"I understand," said the Panther. "A musical engagement?" 

"Yeah," she said. "Rehearsals for a new show. You coming in on schedule?" 

"You may rely upon it," said T'Challa. "And my word is my bond. Let me make contact with the Avengers, and I will make contact with you." 

"Which, I guess, shows where I end up in the grand scheme of things. Okay. Let me know when you get in town. Anything else?" 

"Not really, other than I love you." 

"Same here. But don't think that lets you off the hook. Bye." 

"Farewell." The image faded a second before the Panther switched off his own set. He turned to Taku. "Let us go." 

"As you will," said Taku, and led him out of the chamber to the hall, the stairs, and the rooftop above. 

A highly futuristic but lightweight vehicle was waiting for him there. T'Challa nodded to the guards stationed around the roof, and they saluted him. He got inside the Magna-Car. "Look after the kingdom well, Taku," he said, clasping the other's hand. 

"And pray, my chieftain, that it is here when you return," said Taku, seriously. 

The Panther let him go, then sent the car into the air on lines of magnetic force. It shot into the sky and was soon gone from sight. 

Taku watched it go, and hoped he would never have to do so again. 

-M- 

It had not been easy for Magneto to rebuild his alliance, given the time frame within which he had to work...only a short time since his ill-fated encounter with the Inhumans in San Francisco, in search of a new power source in a device called the Universe Machine. But rebuild it he did. There was, all agreed, some degree of assurance in dealing with an Old Firm. 

Now he had gathered to himself Unus, the Blob, the Vanisher, and Mastermind, all of them old allies and former members of Factor Three, plus Mesmero, the Maha Yogi, and the Living Pharaoh (who had, as of yet, not had the occasion to turn himself into the Living Monolith). All of them were mutants, all of them had fought the X-Men, and all of them were united in the current Brotherhood of Evil Mutants. 

"So how come we're throwing in with this geek, anyway?" rasped the Blob in his Texan drawl. "Who says we've gotta share with anybody else?" 

Unus said, "The Blob has a point, Magneto. Figuratively, that is." 

Magneto scowled momentarily at Unus. The untouchable mutant was, with the Pharaoh, one of the hardest of his associates to rule. But as long as he kept his insolence down a bit, Magneto would overlook it. Until he felt like not overlooking it. 

"The operation can be turned to our own advantage," said Magneto. "It will be too big to be ignored. Too big to not be capitalized upon. If this causes the destruction of all of our enemies, the X-Men among them, and all the rest, it would be insanity not to involve ourselves. Afterwards, we will deal for territory and power. For now...we will put our shoulder to his wheel. Agreed?" 

Each of them said, "Agreed," singularly, some with more enthusiasm than others. 

"It is done," said Magneto, and held out his hand. A portable phone floated from the wall inerringly into his hand. He dialed the number he wished without touching his finger to the digits. 

Contact was made, and a voice on the other end said, "Password." 

And Magneto said, "Fire." 

To be continued...   
  



	8. Part 8: SpiderMan's Story

  
FIRE! 

A Tale of the Marvel Universe 

by DarkMark 

Part 8 

PARKER 

So now you're wondering where I came in, right, kids? 

Simple enough. The whole thing caught me flatfooted. I had no idea of what was going on, until well after the thing was underway. And that was too late. 

Spider sense? It warns me about immediate danger, young 'uns. Not much good about detecting long-range evil plots of bad guys who were half a city away from me. If it went off at every evil thought within a hundred miles, I'd never have gotten to sleep. 

Okay, well...to begin, I'd done my four years in Empire State, and in 1970, several big things happened. First, both me and Gwen graduated. We were wondering what the heck to do right then. She was going to look for a job as a marketer for some of the big fashion chains in the Garment District. I used to kid her about having a Women's Wear Daily chained to her wrist. As for me, I had to decide whether or not to apply for graduate school or to try and get a job. But I got an interview with Stark Enterprises out on Long Island and got in as an apprentice chemist. The pay was darned good. I didn't see Mr. Stark very much, though. 

Gwen and I had been dating a long time, but I just hadn't gotten around to popping the question. I guess I was scared to. There was a girl named Betty Brant that came before Gwen...I lost her to another man. I still don't know if the fact that I had to keep a secret, and she seemed to know it, had anything to do with it. 

Plus I guess I...well, this is kind of hard to talk about, kids...I had a habit of losing people that mattered to me, except for Aunt May. My parents died before I even got to know them. Then there was Uncle Ben. I still feel the pain of that one, believe it. Especially when I...ah, dammit, I just can't talk about it right now. I'll try and tell you some other time. 

It took another death to kind of straighten things out. That smells, but that's the way it was. 

Gwen's father, Captain George Stacy, was the one who died. I saw it happen. Couldn't much avoid it. I was fighting Doc Ock back then...that's Dr. Octopus, to you...and I'd made Ock's tentacles go haywire with a couple of gimmicks I planted on him. It was supposed to make him easier to fight, but it didn't quite turn out that way. When not even Octopus can control his own metal tentacles, you had double cause to watch out. 

We were fighting on a rooftop, and Ock's arms demolished a chimney. It sent the pieces falling over the side of the building we were fighting on, and most of the rubberneckers below got out of the way. 

All except for one kid, who was paralyzed by fear. 

Captain Stacy was on the scene. He saw the kid. So did I, but I was too high up to do anything about it. He launched himself at the boy just like he was an Olympic runner...this from a man pushing seventy, and walking with a cane. And he shoved the kid out of the way in time. Saved his life. 

But he couldn't save his own. 

The bricks from the chimney...they came down right on top of him. 

I saw it. 

Right then, Doc Ock could go to hell, as far as I was concerned. I jumped down from the top of the building, hooked my web onto the side of it, and swung down so fast I hurt my ankles when I hit. The only thing I could do was dig him out of the rubble. He was busted up pretty badly inside. I could tell. There was a doctor's office in the next building, so I picked him up and walked up the side of the wall with him, figuring it was the quickest way to get him there. Somebody downstairs hollered that I was the one who brought those bricks down, that I was the one who killed him. 

But I really didn't give a damn what they thought. 

We were on top of the building when Captain Stacy begged me to stop. I didn't know if I'd hurt him or not, picking him up the way I did. But I stopped, and wondered if I should have. 

I guess it wouldn't have made any difference. 

I still remember what he said. As if I could ever forget it. 

He said, "It's Gwen. After I'm gone, there'll be no one to look after her. No one, Peter, except you." 

He knew who I was. 

He knew that Spider-Man was Peter Parker. 

He told me to be good to Gwen, that she loved me very much. And those were the last words George Stacy ever said. 

There was nothing left to do except go to the doctor's office, which I did, and have him call the coroner, which he did. I saw the doc's eyes bug out when I swung in. He wasn't used to guys opening his window from the outside while sticking to the building wall. But that wasn't important. I just got the job done, then went home on my webs. I couldn't stick around and answer questions. 

Thanks to that, I came under suspicion of murder for a year or so. But they determined that the fault was Octopus's, so I was cleared eventually. Before the eventually, I had to dodge a lot of cops, and a lot of heroes who worked with me had to pretend they hadn't. We did a lot of that, believe me. 

In the meantime, I made a life. No. We made a life. Gwen and I. It was a life that, maybe three or four years before, I would never have believed could have happened to Peter Parker. We found love. Both of us, kids...we found love. 

It was like...I could riff on this for all night, and never get to a tenth of it. Abandoning the fear of being with someone other than yourself. Getting courage enough to accept somebody else, and hoping they accepted you, and finding out they did and more, and more... My words. They're inadequate. Maybe that's why I was a photographer. 

When I was a kid, I was, well, lonely. I'm sure you can relate to that, in a way. If there was anything that looked like an inside, I was outside of it. Whipping boy for the block, jerk target for Flash Thompson and the football guys, dandelion fluff to be brushed off the shoulders of the girls I tried to get. That happens to lots of guys. But when it happens to you, you're the only one in the world it happens to. 

It started easing up a bit when I met that wonderful woman, Betty Brant...I'm not scared to call her wonderful, even though I never married her. She was my friend, even my girl, or sort of, for a while. I've told Gwen about these things, and she understands. She even approved. She met Betty, they're friends, and they both agree about certain aspects of my personality. Don't ask which. 

Then I went to college, met Gwen...not exactly 'met', more 'encountered'. She hit it off pretty well with Flash Thompson, who'd managed to get a scholarship to ESU at the same time I got mine. Neither of them, nor Harry Osborn, who was a rich kid and part of their clique, had the time of day for me. So how did we all end up being best of friends within a year? Heck if I know. Some things just happen. 

Mary Jane Watson happened. She was the cute redhead in the neighborhood, and for awhile it was me and MJ and Harry and Gwen, or sometimes Flash and Gwen. But we did a tradeoff somewhere in there, and Harry got MJ, while I got Gwen. Ms. Stacy started out as a prep queen, all nose in the air and all that. But she got over it. She...thawed. So did I. 

What happened to Flash? Well, his grades weren't so good and the 'Nam War was on and he was prime draft bait. Flash wasn't the kind of guy to go to Canada, God bless him. He got his number called and he went and did his job for Uncle Sam. And yeah, he saw action. It changed him. Changed anybody that went over there. I was just lucky I didn't get my ticket pulled. Fighting super-villains is one thing. Killing...that's another. 

But by that time we were friends. Why? Because I stood up to him after awhile, and he respected that. He also learned that, like it or not, he wasn't going to be able to play football forever, and he was going to need to find a life to make for himself. And he didn't know what to do, just then. So he went into the Service. If they hadn't called him, I think he would have volunteered anyway. We gave him a big send-off at the Coffee Bean, which was the place in Greenwich where we used to hang. Then we didn't see him for awhile, except when he sometimes got rotated home for awhile on leave. 

I asked him, once, what he saw over there. He just got a look that I'd never seen in a football player's eyes, even when they were facing the toughest team in the conference. I didn't have to ask what brought that on. He just told me, "Pete, I'll get back to you on that." He never did, and I never asked him to. 

He got lucky. He made it home with all his body parts intact. I knew a few who didn't. 

And Harry? Well, I'll tell you about him some other time. I'll get back to you on that. Trust me. 

But I was talking about Gwen, and the way it felt to be able to come home to a woman, to somebody in your house who actually loved you...all the problems of putting up with each other, cleaning up after each other, working out the bills, trying to fit all the stuff of two people's lives in a five-room apartment, arguing, reasoning, pleading, then making over each other like bandits...which is something you'll learn about when you join the University of the Gutter, trust me, kids...and knowing you wouldn't trade any bit of it for a seat on the board of Chase Manhattan, or a chance at winning a five billion dollar Lotto. And I'm serious about it. 

Love. All our inadequacy of description is summed up in that one lousy word. Love. 

And it is gratifying, very much so, to learn that somebody else loves you as well. Especially when you don't think in your wildest that you're the least bit deserving of it. 

But Gwen is good at seeing stuff I can't. 

So how did she find out about me? Oh, God. You think you can keep that stuff secret when you're married? You can't. Believe me, you can't do it even with spider-sense. 

I had to get into the apartment before we had properly moved in, choose a place behind a ceiling panel, make sure it was sufficiently spacious, and stash my Spidey costume up there, along with my darned web-slingers, the belt, the camera, the whole nine yards. Dusty? You don't know the half of it! And when I did that, I had to pray that somehow, my darling blonde five-foot-six doll of a wife wouldn't somehow, someway, be drawn by some instinct I have no inkling of its existence to go to the one ceiling panel that was suspicious, poke it up, and see a red-and-blue uniform up there with a black spider and a whole buncha dust bunnies on the chest. Most likely, she'd get hit by falling web-slingers, too. 

The worst part of it was that I felt bad about keeping things from her. But, hell, we were just starting out. How do you tell your new bride that you've been risking your life for years, swinging off tall buildings, dusting your pink little knuckles off the jaws of Kraven the Hunter and the Sandman and the Vulture? She might not have liked it even if I'd told her about meeting Dr. Doom. 

Oh, yes, I did meet him, kiddies, and he almost killed me. That's for another time. Let me get through this, okay? 

I found out in short order that it wasn't going to be the way it was when I lived in Forest Hills. Then, when I wanted to go out for a swingdown down uptown, just to clear out the cobwebs...that's a joke, son...I could tell Aunt May or, later, Harry Osborn that I was just going out for some air. They assumed I meant a walk. I didn't elaborate. 

But now that I was married, life was like, well, work and home with Gwen. Plus some outings on the weekends seeing Aunt May, or some of the old friends, or a few of the new friends we were making at Stark. Most of it, though, was just getting acclimated to one another. That takes time, and when it does, you have to let a lot of the old stuff go hang. Such as web-slinging. 

It got so bad, J. Jonah himself posted a big banner headline on his rag, The Daily Bugle: WHERE IS SPIDER-MAN? He claimed that I was in hiding, either too chicken to show up and catch crooks anymore, or planning some big bad evil thing to do to the city. Like maybe web shut all the pay toilets in town, or something. A couple years back, I would have busted into his office, webbed him to the ceiling by the seat of his pants, and left. I did that more than once. 

But I didn't do that anymore. I was happy. Happier, anyway, than I'd been for most of my life. 

And I was wondering if, somewhere along the line, something would take all that happiness away. Just like that. 

Gwen saw me like that sometimes, and held my hand and asked me what was wrong. I told her some of it, told her that since losing Uncle Ben, I was scared of losing things. So I held her even harder and told her I never, ever, ever intended to lose her. She held me back and said she never intended to get lost. And that was good. 

But there were times when I'd be watching TV with her, and they'd break in to the Bob Hope Special or something with a special bulletin. The camera guys would be out, panning on some crazy super-hero fight. Lots of times they couldn't recognize the parties involved, but I usually knew them, unless it was some new guy trying to make a name for himself. I'd really sit up and study the screen when those came on. Gwen asked why, and I just told her what she knew: that I'd made a lot of money from the Bugle by taking pictures of Spider-Man, and that sort of stuff interested me. She gave me a curious look. I kept my peace, as much as I could. 

And I wondered if something bad was going to happen, because I wasn't out there. 

Because I knew what had happened when I hadn't stopped a burglar from making it to an elevator, one time.   


It was five months on into the marriage when I started going out for air. When I did, it was like I'd never left off. I cut loose with the biggest display of nighttime webrobatics the Apple had seen in years. I put on a show around the Chrysler Building they're still talking about. I went down and stuffed a bunch of guys holding up a liquor store into three individual garbage cans, and webbed 'em face-down. Just for fun, I took a 13-year-old kid for a jumping ride aboard my back and made it across one of the biggest intersections downtown in just three jumps. I made him promise not to tell. 

At the end, I swung down by the Bugle building and left 'em a little message in webs on the front wall: SPIDEY'S BACK. They got a bunch of good shots of it before the hour was up and it dissolved. I think I could hear Jonah Jameson yelling for five blocks. That way, I knew he was happy. 

I didn't know for how long I'd be back. I just knew that I felt like me again, holding onto a long string of webbing, shooting out another to a building across the street and swinging on that, making like Tarzan all across town, with the wind in my face and the lights close-up and the rubberneckers downstairs pointing up and calling my name and probably calling a bunch of other names as well. I was hoping I'd see Thor or Daredevil or Iron Man or even the Human Torch somewhere along the way, and get to wave hi or something, at least. But, nope, it was just me that night. 

I was Spider-Man again. 

And I loved it. 

No super-villains that night, no Mysterio or Rhino or Shocker or Kingpin. But that was all right. Being Spidey wasn't always about villains. Lots of times it was just about being in the wind. 

But only Spider-Man would know about that. 

There was one other thing I found out about, when I swung past a big clock. 

I'd been gone over four hours. 

You think there aren't things scarier than Dr. Doom? Try imagining what your wife is going to say when you've been AWOL all that time, and you'd have to tell her, "Um, dear, I've been swinging on my web around the Chrysler Building, several hundred feet above the ground. Oh, yeah, and there was this bunch of punks I nabbed trying to heist a liquor store, and I gave a kid a ride across the street and webbed the front of the Bugle Building. Other than that, nothing much." 

I can get around places pretty quickly. But, even with my kind of speed, it does take time to get from downtown Manhattan to where we were living. I never was Superman. Plus I had to get changed into my civvies, make my way around to our apartment building, hoping that nobody had seen...my spider-sense was good about tipping me off to stuff like that...and then take the elevator up, and, worst of all, unlock the front door and open it. 

Gwen was there as soon as I'd opened it. She gave me the worst sentence I'd ever heard from her: "Peter, where have you been?" 

She was looking at me with eyes that had all the pain in the world, and they were doing a great job of reflecting that pain right back at me. She was standing there in a pair of jeans and a blouse and her hair wasn't even styled right, and I can tell you, kids, she took a lot of pride in her hair. She wasn't wearing her shoes and the TV was on and a couple of pop cans were open, one of them on the carpet, and she had never done that. She was neat. But that night, she had done it. There was also a half-eaten bowl of mac 'n' cheese on the table, and I didn't even want to contemplate what signals it signified. I knew them already. 

What was she saying to me? 

Peter, how could you have left me this long? 

How could you have been gone four hours without even calling? 

What were you doing out there, without letting me know, when we've only been married this short a time? 

And, yes, I have to say it. There's always that implied question, when something like that comes down: 

Were you out with another woman? 

I don't think I smiled. I don't think I would have dared smile, at that time, not even to try and blunt things with a joke. I told her, "I was catching air, Gwen, and I just lost track. You know how it is. I've been kept inside a lab or this place for so long, I just had to do some walking. You know. That's all, just walking." 

She stared at me and said, "You catch air for four hours and you don't even call me?" 

I told her I was sorry, and she said, "You're more than that, Peter. What were you doing out there? What were you really, really doing?" 

I sighed and put my hands on her shoulders and she moved away, back into the apartment. I said, "Darling, let me in. I'll try and tell you. There isn't that much to tell." 

She said, "There is. If you tell everything." 

I said, "There isn't everything to tell. I was just out, honey, and it took awhile for me to know how long it'd been. My feet went off without permission." 

She looked at me and said, "Are you sure it was just your feet?" 

I managed to get inside and shut the door. I locked it and said, "Gwen, I resent that implication." 

She wasn't quite near me, and she looked like she both wanted to and didn't want to be any closer. "And does it matter what I resent, Peter? Does it matter that I've been worried about where you've gone?" 

"Gwen, it was only four hours." 

"It was only four hours while you never called me or let me know what happened or anything. Peter, a walk around the neighborhood doesn't take four hours. If you met somebody or had something to do, I would have expected a call from you. It's not like..." She couldn't quite answer, right then. 

So I said, "It's not like what, Gwen?" 

She said, "It's not like we've been married a long time. It's not like I can get used to this sort of thing." 

I said, "I'm sorry, Gwen, and I know how inadequate that sounds. Believe me, I was not doing anything I shouldn't...well, I don't think I was, anyway." That was meant as a joke, and it was as bad a mistake as ordering sliced ham for a bar mitzvah. 

We said some other things. A lot of other things. I don't think we were being nasty, kids, but we did manage to hurt each other, not even wanting to, but in the kind of way that you make your partner know that you want them to feel your pain. And we did. That was the hell of it. You can't avoid feeling her pain, or her yours. Sometimes, I think that's the real reason why people get divorced: they have all they can do just being responsible for their own pain, not somebody else's. 

I was wondering if the walls were adequately insulated enough to keep people on the other sides from hearing us, but it didn't matter, because we were in this thing to the end. She was crying and I was trying to touch her and she didn't want me to, and then she had her head on my shoulder and she was saying something of what she really meant: that she'd lost her mother a long time ago and she'd lost her dad a year ago and if she was going to lose me, she wanted it to be now or never at all, because she didn't think she could take losing that much anymore. She had been hoping for some gains, but now it just looked like another loss. 

And that's when I turned the corner. 

I pushed her away from me gently, still looking at her, and knew just what I had to say and do. 

I said, "I know all about your father's death, Gwen. I know. I was there." 

She couldn't say anything. She was still teary-eyed, but her mouth was open, and she must have been telepathing questions to me. I was receiving them all loud and clear. 

"I was there, Gwen," I said. "And while I was there, I was wearing this." 

That's when I tore open my shirt. 

I think she almost fainted then. I reached out to take hold of her, kept her upright, but I didn't hug her just yet. I wanted her to see what she had to. 

She had to see that blue-and-red shirt with the web pattern and the spider on the chest. 

I was rushing in there with words, getting there before her questions could. "I tried to save him, Gwen, but even I couldn't do it. I tried. I saw it all. He saved a child, Gwen. He gave his life to save a kid." 

She was beating on me with both fists and yelling, "Stop it! Stop it!" over and over again. She was screaming. But I had to run the gauntlet. Didn't really have a choice. 

I took her by the arms and maybe I had to use a little of the old spider-strength to do it. But that wasn't what turned the trick. 

I told her, "I can't stop it. Because the last thing he told me, Gwen, before he died, was that he loved you very much, and when he was gone, there'd be nobody to look after you. Nobody but me. Nobody but me, Gwen. Nobody but me." 

That stopped her. 

I told her I'd promised George Stacy to do just that thing, even though I'm not sure he heard me when I did it. That I was never going to stop doing it. And that he said one thing more: that he knew she loved me. 

And about a second later, she was holding me so tightly that I don't think a grip that could have kept Kraven the Hunter at bay would have done any good against her just then. She was crying, but in a different sort of tone. It was the right kind of tone, at last. 

I don't think she was alone, either. 

The next thing I remember, kids, was that both of us were sitting on the floor. We had our arms around each other, and I think we were both still kind of trembly. As a matter of fact, I know we were. 

We got around to talking about a lot of things that night. I told her how I'd become the Spider-Man, all about the radioactive spider and the burglar and my Uncle Ben, and she felt even sorrier for me than she had before. I told her how I'd made the web-shooters and how some of my powers worked. The bit is, Gwen had met Spider-Man, too. I'd saved her and her father once from the Kingpin. She'd seen me before then, when I had to keep Kraven from kidnapping Harry Osborn. Like it or not, most of my friends did get drawn, one by one, into the web of Spider-Man at one time or another. So she knew, finally, why what had happened to her had happened. 

There had also been a time in which I'd gotten kind of addled by a virus and had walked in on her, her dad, Harry, and MJ, and had told them I was Spider-Man. Later on, I passed it off as me having a delusion. I have a feeling Gwen was wishing a little bit that I was still delusional. 

She was saying, "I am having such a hard time dealing with this, Peter. I'm having such a hard time, getting my mind around it. I, I just don't know what to do with it." 

I said, "That's not the problem, Gwen. The problem is: what do we do with us?" 

She said, "I've got to know for sure, Peter. I believe you, but I want to see it with my own eyes." 

So I stood up, took off the rest of my civvies, put on my mask and gloves, did a standing somersault, and landed with my feet sticking to the ceiling. I don't know if anybody called the super, but I never heard from him if they did. I sprayed webbing on a Monet print on the wall, and told her the stuff would dissolve in an hour with no muss, no fuss. Then I walked across the ceiling and held out both my hands, upside-down to her. 

She took them. 

I asked her, "Are we still together, Gwen? Your call." 

She sighed and said, "We're still together, Peter. As far as...I won't say this doesn't change things. It has to. But I still want you. I still can't see anyone whom I could love as much as I love you. Even if...even if I've just found out I'm the wife of Spider-Man." 

That's when I grabbed her, turned her as upside-down as I was, and hugged her tight. Her hair was hanging down towards the floor, but I don't think either one of us minded. 

Later on, she asked what I intended to do about Spider-Man. I said, "I don't know that I intend to do anything about Spider-Man. I just know that I like cutting loose and swinging all over the city, every once in awhile. Like tonight." 

She nodded...we were in bed by then...and said what was really on her mind. "You have to fight people," she said. 

"Sometimes," I said. 

"People with super-powers. People who are trying to kill you." 

"Lots of times," I said. "And they haven't done it yet." 

She put her hand on mine and said, "But they might, Peter. Everybody's only got so many chances, and if you keep doing this, you'll finally come to your last one." 

"And if I don't," I said, "I'll come to another guy who I should have stopped before he could get in an elevator, and then go murder somebody. Or some other guy who might be waiting to drop a chimney on an innocent man." 

She shivered, and I didn't blame her. "I don't want to hear about great power and great responsibility again, Peter. All I know is that I want you alive, and here with me. I don't want to have to see a news show of, of Spider-Man fighting the Sandman, and knowing its my husband out there almost getting beaten to death." 

I sort of spread my hands. "What can I say, Gwen? There's only so many of us out there, and a lot more of them. If Spidey hadn't been around sometimes, a lot of people would have been in a lot of trouble. Dead, sometimes, even. Including you." 

"Yes," she said. "Including me. But there's something more, Peter. Something more than that." 

I could get the drift from her tone. But you can tell when a woman wants you to ask "What?". So I did. 

"I'm pregnant, Peter. We're going to have a baby." 

At that, I said, "Hoo boy," and "That's great!", more or less at the same time. And I don't remember really anything else I said after that, until I fell asleep. 

I didn't quit being Spidey. But I did cut down. Way down. And, some months after our little conversation, I did deliver Gwen to the hospital...in a cab, not on a webline...and she blessed us with a little girl we named May. 

Okay. That's enough stage-setting, kids. 

Are you ready? 

Because now we get to tell you about the Fire. 

To be continued...   
  



	9. Part 9:  Firemaker

  
FIRE! 

A Tale of the Marvel Universe 

by DarkMark 

Part 9 

The facts in the case of Gary Gilbert were these: 

Born in New Rochelle, New York, 1946, shortly after his father, Simon Gilbert, got back from the War. His mother, Carrie, bore him and no other. Simon got into college on the G.I. Bill, got out with a degree in engineering and another one in business administration, and went to work for Howard Stark some years before the old man passed on and passed the business to his son Tony. The family was Republican. Simon expected his son to be the same. 

He was not. 

Gary grew up in wealth, privilege, and the shadow of the New Frontier. His father never cared that much for JFK, even after the assassination. But what his father could not accept even more than that, was Change. 

America, Gary had come to realize, had been in a state of extreme stability during his lifetime, such as could be maintained. The War had been won, the Cold War had been maintained with varying degrees of success, and the country was unbelievably prosperous, the envy of the entire planet. 

But with all that, there was injustice, and inequality. That inequality wore many different faces, but the one most prominent was black. As long as the double standard existed between whites and everyone else, Gary knew that the gap between the America he had loved, the one about which he had been taught in school, and the reality would still be palpable. 

In May of 1964, Gary Gilbert graduated high school and went to college, at Empire State University. Like his old man, he intended to be an engineer, though the elder Gilbert was by now a ranking executive at Stark Industries. The country was still bleeding through the open hole that had been shot in Jack Kennedy. Lyndon Johnson was forging ahead with his War on Poverty, with his speech that ended in "We shall overcome", and with his hopes to educate as many as possible. The New Deal, phase two. 

Unfortunately, after some shots were fired at a PT boat in Vietnam, he forged ahead with plans in that area, too. 

By the time Gary started his fall semester, students were being drafted and sent to the war. 

At first, he was pro-hawk. After all, it was the Commies we were fighting, the ones who had put up the Berlin Wall and crushed resistance in Eastern Europe and taken over China and caused the Cuban Crisis and brainwashed Cardinal Mindsentsky. So, yeah, Gary didn't have too much problem with fighting the Commies, at first. 

But there were other currents on campus in that wonderful year of 1964. Most of the ones who seemed smart enough to think politically were pro-King, pro-black liberation, even, sometimes, pro-Malcolm. (That, even though one black student that Gary had befriended said Malcolm changed so often these days he didn't know where the man was so he could be pro him, or against him.) There were others, of Gary's father's stripe, who opposed them. Gary and his friends mostly shut them out. 

Among Gary's friends was one who, flatly, opposed the Vietnam war. His name was David Graine. Before long, he'd gotten the nickname "Against the Graine", for obvious reasons. He was pre-law, fairly brilliant, and so far left he called the Democrats fascists. He was the first to write a four-letter word in front of Johnson's name on a bit of public graffiti, though nobody could prove that it was him. 

"They used to call it the New Frontier," he said, in a campus bull session one time. "But what kind of frontier is it? It's just another damned rehash of the other one. They just improved the guns. Bang, there goes Jack Kennedy. Bang, there goes Medgar Evers. Bang, there goes Malcolm X. And we know how many bangs there are in Asia every day." 

"Hey, man, who do you wanna bang?" said Sammy Martin, a second-year transfer from upstate. A couple of guys laughed, but it didn't last for long. Graine saw to that. 

"I want to bang Johnson," he said. "I want to bang Rockefeller, and Ford, and DuPont, and the whole damn power structure. I want to bust this thing wide open. I want to see what we're not getting to see, and make it to where nobody ever gets us into a war again." 

"Don't you think the North had anything to do with it?" asked Rich McGowan, another dormer working on his pre-law degree. 

"The North is just doing what the North has always done," Graine answered. "We didn't have to get involved in it. We didn't get involved with Hungary, or Yugoslavia. Why do we have to get involved in Johnson's damn trophy war? Why do we have to be the whores for the power elite?" 

That was a long time before people were regularly tossing around phrases like "power elite". But Gary never forgot where he'd heard it first. 

There was more debate, or more properly, argument, after that. Then they crashed, and got up for class, and went through the motions. Gary Gilbert wasn't entirely persuaded, by a long shot, of Graine's validity. 

But he did begin to question. In particular, he questioned his privilege. 

It didn't come all at once. Just bit by bit, slowly. Why was America proclaimed as such a great nation, a shining city on a hill, and yet allowed its blacks to suffer in ghettos, its Indians to be isolated on reservations, its women to be treated as inferior to their husbands or men in general, and anyone it felt like bombing to be treated as its victims? There was quite a bit of opposition to that last, especially when dissenters pointed out what the Communists were doing in North Vietnam. 

Still, Gary Gilbert began to wonder. 

He had talks with his father about it, at times. Why were the blacks, until recently, denied the vote? Well, son, we can't go around feeling guilty for everything our ancestors did wrong, can we? Especially when they did so much right. Those were the ones who won from Valley Forge to Berlin to Tokyo, and maybe to Korea as well. They were the ones who gave you this great country to live in, and the life-style you're living. 

Well, wasn't there enough of that life-style to go around for nonwhites? 

There will be, son, in the future, if we keep things together here and make sure there's jobs to give them by keeping up the corporate structure. Say, who have you been talking to up there, anyway? 

Before long, Graine had told him about a protest march. They needed people to carry signs. Hell, they needed just about anybody they could rally out there. So what about it? Was he ready to stop talking, and start walking? After all, it was going to be nonviolent. Just march, and let the Man know what you thought. 

Gary said, "I'll go," out of curiosity more than anything else. So he went. 

The protest signs didn't carry any obscenities. That was too early in the Movement for that. Gary felt a bit out of place—no, a lot out of place—among the bearded, carefully straggly types who made up the bulk of the protestors. Couldn't have been more than 25 of them out there, carrying those pickets. A crazy Coxey's Army, Gary thought to himself. But he held the sign, and he looked full into the face of the Man, with his blue uniforms, crash helmets, and billy clubs, as he marched. 

And he got a faceful of Mace for his looking. 

It burned like hell and made him scream, made him drop his sign, fall to his knees, fall flat on the ground and scratch at his face, trying to remove it so the burning could go away. There were others in the group, screaming, and members of the crowd screaming at them, screaming things that would never make the news shows that covered this, and the Man coming and hauling people off by the armpits, sometimes bashing a person over the head if he resisted, but there weren't too many who resisted, their faces were burning and that was the important thing, oh god oh god oh god this stuff HURTS... 

...and the next thing Gary knew, he was getting his face washed in a sink at police headquarters. 

They wanted to send him home with a warning, since his parents were rich. But he asked what the rest were getting. They told him, "A night in the slammer." 

So he said, "That's where I want to be, too." 

And they let him. 

Within four hours, Simon Gilbert and his wife, Carrie, were at the jail, together with their lawyer. They insisted on getting Gary out. Gary resisted, and his mates in the large cell with him applauded. Simon grimaced and said, "The hell with that. Get him out of there." So a couple of guards came in, pulled Gary out of the cell, and slammed the door behind him. 

"What did you do that for?" asked Gary, defiantly. 

"Shut up, son," snapped Simon, and walked before him with his wife as the guards accompanied them down the hall. 

After the appropriate papers were signed, Gary was extruded from the jail in the custody of his parents. His father fumed, but saved most of it until they were home. When they were, he let loose on his son, and it led to a shouting match. That led to him running out the door. Carrie Gilbert called for him to come back, knowing it was about as much good as trying to turn the wind. 

By morning, he was back at the college which he attended, wondering if he'd actually jumped bail. The ones who hadn't gone to the demonstration clustered around with questions for him, since he was just about the first one back. "We did our part," he said. "We stood up. The Man tear-gassed us. How about you?" 

A lot of them didn't care to answer that question. 

By afternoon, Gary's calculus instructor asked him to step into the hall. He thought about breaking and running, but there was little you could escape to in a third-floor classroom with but one door to the outside. Two cops were waiting for him, and he surrendered. 

It turned out he had been guilty of bail-jumping by leaving town. Gary got a suspended sentence and much lecturing by the judge, and cost his parents a bundle to avoid spending at least thirty days in the lockup. 

To Gary, it didn't matter. He'd found out what he wanted to do with his life. He had a cause. He had friends. Better than that, he had allies. 

For every "Sure, dad," he gave out by rote, the thought grew stronger in his mind: the Left was the only way to go. 

The next several months went okay. Simon Gilbert, encouraged, brought his son to a company dinner at which Iron Man spoke in place of Mr. Stark, who was otherwise engaged. Simon could tell his son was impressed by the hero's armor, and enjoyed the demonstration of his repulsors (he punched a hole through a steel plate on a rack thirty feet across the room) and his strength (he lifted an entire table that ten attendees were sitting on). But the kid's attention seemed to wane during Iron Man's speech. Nonetheless, he shook hands with the Avenger when they were in line, and had a few questions about his armor. Penetrating questions. 

Simon didn't know whether to be impressed by his son's interest, or not. 

There were other protests at Empire State as the four-year term dragged on. Simon Gilbert was sure he saw his son at several of them, in the film clips on the news at night. He angrily asked his Gary if he was involved in them. Gary said no. 

The detective that Simon hired later on that year to tail him said something different. 

Gary was, according to him, heavily involved with the Movement. Groups like the Students for a Democratic Society were barely getting off the ground, and the Weathermen were still a ways away. But he had attended meetings, he had formed alliances, he had contributed what money he had, and, yes, he had taken part in demonstrations, the kind that were increasingly turning violent as the months went on. He was confirmed to have used drugs, albeit little more than marijuana. In those heady days, that was almost a relief. 

Except to Simon Gilbert, who pulled his son out of ESU the day after he got the report. 

There was much screaming and many accusations on both sides. Carrie Gilbert tried in vain to calm the waters, tried in vain to reach her son, and finally took the Caddy and left both her son and husband for a long stay in her parents' home and another at her best friend's. The divorce papers came through not long afterward. 

Gary was kept under virtual house arrest by his father, who was damned if he was going to see any son of his grow up to be a Communist. 

After awhile, Gary came to his father with a proposal. If he'd let him continue his education by taking tech and industrial courses provided by Stark Industries, then he'd say bye-bye to radicalism. Simon asked him if he really meant that. Gary said he did. Simon didn't know whether to believe him or not. But Carrie was lost to him now. He wanted to believe, needed to believe, that there was still part of his family which was responsive to him now. Part of the family that was still truly his. 

So he agreed. 

Gary bent himself to his studies, and excelled. Particularly in the areas of robotics, cybernetics, and design. Who would have thought the kid had it in him?, Simon thought. Maybe he's straightened out after all. Maybe there's more of a Gilbert in him than anyone could have thought. 

Gary was still covertly in contact with Graine. And even more covertly, Gary was designing and creating a suit of mechanized armor. 

Like Iron Man's? Well, yes and no. It was a lot less bulky, perhaps a bit less powerful, but it excelled in one area: armament. Gary's armor would be designed with fire and flame-throwing abilities as its forte. The burning of Watts, the cry, "Burn, baby, burn!", the incinerated draft cards, the firebombing of government buildings and banks...these were his inspirations. But there was more to it than that. 

In his secret identity, Gary Gilbert would be able to do things that he wouldn't be able to without a mask. And wasn't that the reason why super-heroes put on a mask, in the first place? To conceal the surface, and to liberate the id-like thing of power within? To enable him to use the rhetoric he so admired in the Movement's leaders, and back them up with the power of technology and flame? 

To be a firebrand? 

To be the Firebrand. 

That was why he did it. 

One night, Gary Gilbert learned of a happening in a largely black neighborhood, the North Side of Bay City. The Iron Man Foundation was helping sponsor a community center, with a groundbreaking ceremony scheduled for a week hence. The black community was sharply divided on it. Some felt that the center would be all right. Others felt that the money spent on the center could be better put to the creation of jobs, and / or the training for them. 

So some militants were talking about a strike. Gary Gilbert saw the name, "Iron Man", on the foundation's header, learned that the Mighty Shellhead himself was to put in an appearance, and went to Graine to talk things over. 

"You think I ought to go?" Gary asked. 

"I think your destiny just gave you a non-collect call," said Graine. "Go with it, baby. Committment." 

Gary knew he was going, anyway. When he went in the hidden area of his shop, when he looked upon the gleaming surface of his armor, outfitted with flex-jointed metal, just like Iron Man's, and painted red and gold, just like Iron Man's, but with a clenched fist of flame for a chest emblem, there was only one thing he could do. One answer he could provide. 

Over the weekend, he took the armor with him, and, when he got to Bay City, he put it on. 

The inhabitants of the North Side were more than a bit nonplussed to see him jetting in on his flying boots (again, just like Iron Man's). Super-heroes weren't known for showing up in their neighborhood. Most of them seemed to think he was Iron Man himself. He disabused them of that notion, blasting a trash can near the community center site with a casual gesture of his metal glove. It burst into flames and burned or melted. 

"I'm no Iron Man, baby," he said. "You can call me Firebrand. And I'm on your side." 

"Oh? You are?" asked one man, getting in his face with a 'fro and a Dashiki and shades no human eye could peer through. "How do you even know what our side is?" 

"Our side is whatever gets us what we want," replied Firebrand. "For you, it's keeping this blister of a center out of your community. Showing the Man what you want, and that you won't be trifled with. For me...it's the first blow I strike against the man." He held his hands below his face, palms up, fingers clawing, and let loose two long bursts of flame from them. Even the Dashikied guy had to draw back, in caution. 

"What do we need from a honky like you?" asked another man. "I may not can see your face, but I know you when you talk." 

"You need power, my man," said Firebrand, stepping forward to him. "The days of simple marches, protests, even throwing bottles and bricks are over. The day of super-heroes is upon us. The man with the Power. And I have power, baby, and I'm lending it to your side. Without me, you get a couple of days in the papers and TV, and that's it. With me, you're front-page news on every piece of media America's got. And that, baby, is the name of the game." 

The brothers had to admit that, honky or not, he had a point. 

So there was a conference. At the end of that conference, the gathering of militants, semi-militants, and people just out to catch the wave of the latest happening made a decision. "You help us occupy this site tomorrow, we'll see," said Mr. Dashiki. "We ain't out to fight, unless we're pushed. But if we're pushed...we'll see what you do." 

Firebrand raised a fist. "They won't push you more than once." 

As it turned out, Iron Man did show, in the company of his fellow Stark employee, an ex-boxer named Eddie March, who was black, and one Councilman Bradshaw, who was decidedly not. Bradshaw was all in favor of getting the protestors out with the blades of bulldozers, if that was what it took. Iron Man put a hand to his shoulder and said, "Starting a community center by dividing the community isn't what the Iron Man Foundation had in mind." 

That was when Firebrand put in an appearance. 

He blasted the ground near Iron Man with a fireball, just to show them where he was coming from. Then he vaulted off the top of a nearby building and made a perfect two-point landing on his jet boots. The cops, the militants, and Iron Man drew back in surprise for a moment, trying to figure out who this new arrival was and what side he was on. 

Firebrand didn't give them much time to be in doubt. 

"Are you so impressed by shiny armor and a boxing rep, you can't see the only reason this pair is rappin' us is to set you up as performing pigs? Well, I'm not! I see a tin hero who willingly lends his name and power to the very project you're trying to fight, and a man who looks like a brother, but comes on like an uncle...named Tom! I see the only thing they can say is going to come out Establishment. And the only was to answer that is with–this!" He held up an armored fist, full in their faces. 

Iron Man knew that the firebursts he had seen came from the man's gloves. Therefore, to protect the crowd, he grabbed for Firebrand's gloves. Politically, it was a bad move: all some of the crowd could see was that he had attacked Firebrand. A few grabbed up rocks and started throwing them. They pinged off the Avenger's armor like sunflower seeds, but the gesture was important. At least to them. Iron Man was surprised, enough so that Firebrand could break free. 

By that time, the wave had spread. A lot of uncommitteds took up bricks, bottles, sticks, anything they could, and started pelting them at Iron Man. Somebodies yelled, "Stop the fascist!" That did it. Iron Man didn't retaliate, but the congressman demanded that the cops attack, and they did. The billy clubs came out. The heads got busted. 

Firebrand let off a burst of flame at his armored opponent. "Now see how hot things can really get, Iron Man!" 

It was the beginning of Bay City's latest riot. 

Shortly thereafter, Iron Man and Firebrand had jetted off to have their private war amidst the tenements. After their initial confrontation, the two had squared off in the ruins of a demolished building. Trying for an advantage, Iron Man grated, "Anxious to join whoever's paying you to turn Northside into a battleground, Firebrand?" 

The radical superbeing sneered at him, deliberately. "You'd like to believe that, wouldn't you, Avenger? That I'm just part of a neat little criminal plot? Or maybe a Commie, a Pinko...that'd be easy to handle, too. Well, I'm just an all-American boy, Iron Man. One of those wide-eyed innocents who started out to make this nation a 'better place'. I sat in for civil rights, marched for peace, and demonstrated on campus...and got chased by vicious dogs, spat on by bigots, beat on by patriots, choked by tear gas, and blinded by mace, until I finally caught on...this country doesn't WANT to be changed! The only way to build anything decent is to tear down what's here and start over! Is that plot enough for you? I'm out to tear down the establishment any and every way I can!" 

"Even by spilling the blood of the city's black community?" asked Iron Man. 

"For their own good," retorted Firebrand. "The only way they'll ever be free is to fight. The end justifies the means." 

The battle continued. It raged from the tenements to the office of Congressman Bradshaw himself, whom Firebrand took for a hostage. But in the process, Iron Man and Eddie March learned that Bradshaw owned a large part of the construction companies who were building the center, and that he was using his position to make himself rich. Bradshaw was exposed. In the final round of the battle, experience told. A pair of repulsor rays demolished Firebrand's hand-blasters, and pained him not a little bit. 

Iron Man would have taken Firebrand, had he not been needed to intervene between police and protestors. Instead, the blazing battler had jetted off into the night, found his hiding place, removed his armor, stowed it in a suitcase, and went back to New Rochelle as plain Gary Gilbert. 

He smiled at Simon. "I'm home," he said. Then both of them sat down to watch the evening news. There was a clip of Firebrand's battle with Iron Man featured. 

That was a heady draft, and it was all he could do to hold in his pride while Dad was looking. 

But in the weeks that followed, Gary had reason to reconsider. The news programs were filled with segments of super-hero versus super-villain battles. The Avengers fought the Masters of Evil. Spider-Man fought Dr. Octopus. The Fantastic Four opposed Dr. Doom. Somebody won. Somebody lost. 

What did it accomplish? 

Not one whole hell of a lot. It was all like an entertainment. Like wrestling. Or like war. But not an effective war. The city repaired itself after the ravages of every battle, and every month there was a new battle to be fought. 

The Establishment remained unharmed by all the violence. 

And if Gary Gilbert continued to be the Firebrand, he'd end up as just another one of Them. 

Clearly, another path had to be sought. If one wanted to make war against society, against the government, against all the restrictive, restraining forces dividing man from man, and from his True Self, it had to be a covert war. 

At least, until one had the power to make it overtly. But swiftly. 

So Gary Gilbert had figuratively put the Firebrand suit in mothballs, and started to accumulate the power he would need for his new enterprise. He turned out to be quite the inventor. And since he wasn't an employee of Stark Enterprises, Stark could not claim his work. On the strength of several of these patents, Simon Gilbert was finally persuaded to jump ship from Stark and start his own firm. 

Gilbert Enterprises was doing damned well. More, in fact, than even Simon could have understood. 

Through Graine, who had become a power unto his own by this time, Gary kept covert contact with the underground. But there was another side that even Graine didn't know about, until, one night, Gary let him in on it. 

"It'll take more than what we've been doing," he admitted. "Both sides have to be kept in the dark, until they know their part. The old bit about the left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing, definitely applies." 

"And which hand am I, man?" asked Graine, who had gained a lot of weight to strain his blue T-shirt since Gary had known him. 

"My good right one," said Gary. "You ought to know that." 

"How about me? How much of the dark are you keeping me in?" 

"Just as much as needs be, friend," said Gary, seriously. "Just as much as needs be." 

"An army of super-villains," said Graine. 

"Indeed," said Gary. 

"A coordinated plan of terrorism," said Graine. 

"You're catching on," said Gary. 

"Resulting in what?" Graine fixed him with a gaze that Gilbert had long known. It meant: put all the cards on the table. 

"The death of the Establishment," said Gary. "And the rise of an America nobody dared dream about. Not before now." 

"I can dream a lot, GG." 

"But I can dream, and make it work." 

"So what do you want me to do?" asked Graine. 

"I want you to say the word," said Gary. "Once you say it, you're in. And once you're in, you're either a winner with us, or dead. So consider it, brother. Consider it well." 

Graine hesitated only a moment. "And the word is?" 

Gary smiled without warmth. The look of it scared even Graine. 

"The word," said Gary Gilbert, "is Fire." 

To be continued... 


	10. Part 10:  The Hunter and the Hero

FIRE! 

Part 10 

by DarkMark 

The biggest problem with conducting a meeting between the Avengers and the Fantastic Four was territoriality. Baxter Building or Avengers Mansion? Reed Richards supplied a quarter and let Jarvis flip it. It ended up heads, and they held the confab at the Mansion. 

There weren't enough seats around the big round Avengers table for the likes of Ant-Man, the Wasp, Thor, Iron Man, Hawkeye, Captain America, the Vision, the Scarlet Witch, Quicksilver, Mr. Fantastic, the Thing, the Human Torch, the Invisible Girl, and their invited guests the Falcon, Hogun, Sif, Fandral, and Hildegarde, the latter four exiled gods of Asgard. So the meeting was held in the dining room, and even then Jarvis the butler had to expand the table. They finally got down to business. 

"You all probably know some of what I've got to tell you," said Reed Richards. "The news isn't being released to the general public yet. But super-criminals have been spirited out of various prisons around the nation, Ryker's Island in particular. We don't have a clue as to who is doing it." 

"And this is the list of the missing?" said Pietro, scrutinizing a set of multiple pages. Each person at the table had been given a duplicate of the list. Included were some of the big names of super-villainy: Dr. Octopus, the Sandman, the Puppet Master, the Mad Thinker, and so on. Enough to fill seven pages of type, closely spaced. 

"Exactly, Quicksilver," said Captain America. "But we're not experiencing the increase in activity from these types that we normally would after a jailbreak. Usually, when super-villains get loose, they start operations as quickly as possible to raise funds or grab power. Recently, the measurable villain activity has dropped." 

"Means the low-lifes are hidin' out," said the Thing, puffing on a cigar. Jarvis was there with an ashtray. "So all we gotta do is find 'em and clobber 'em." 

"Indeed," said Sif, seated beside Thor. "But as thou knowest, Sir Thing, the conceiving of an aim and the execution of it are oft twain, not one." 

"Now, Reed," Ant-Man ventured, at his normal 5 foot 10 height. "This strains my credibility. Do you expect us to believe that all these cons were sprung from Riker's Island and elsewhere, just like that? Without collaboration? I know there's lots of corrupt guards and officials, but..." 

"I've been in contact with SHIELD, and they've done even more investigation than me," Reed answered. "The officials and guards in question have been vetted. No evidence of bribes, no influx of cash into their bank accounts, and the ones subjected to random polygraphs passed without a problem." 

"So, as unbelievable as it sounds," Sue Richards said, "these enemies of ours really were spirited out by persons unknown. To places unknown." 

"Which leaves us darn near as ignorant as before," said Hawkeye, throwing his papers on the desk. "Okay, Reed. What's the whole point of this confab?" 

Mr. Fantastic looked at him tiredly. "The point is, Hawkeye, that we need to work together on this one. We need to trade information, to keep the lines of communication open, and to begin a joint effort to find and recapture these escapees. That's what I'd like to propose to Cap and all the rest of you." 

"The bad guys might not even be in this dimension," said Johnny Storm. "If Doctor Doom is behind it, that is." 

"Aye, or Kang, for that matter," Thor opined. "But let Captain America answer for the lot of us." 

"My answer is yes, Reed," said Cap. "As for my fellow members, I'll ask for a show of hands." 

The hands of all the Avengers present went up. The Asgardians and the Falcon joined in. "As our guests, you aren't required to join in," said Iron Man. 

"Do not insult us, Man of Iron," said Hogun. "You have offered us hospitality. We are honor-bound to fight by your side." 

"And where adventure abounds, none may stop Fandral the Dashing from plunging into it," vowed the blonde, bearded sword-wielder, with a grin. 

"I may not be from Asgard, but I've worked with Cap for a long time, and with the Avengers once," said the Falcon. "I'm not gonna let Harlem go unrepresented in this one. I'm in." 

"We'll accept your participation, all of you," said Cap. "And thanks very much." 

"I have a question," offered the Scarlet Witch. 

"Go ahead, Wanda," said Reed, gesturing towards her. 

"What about the new X-Men? We haven't worked with them as a team yet, but they're the third superhero team in New York. Shouldn't they be included?" 

Reed took a breath. "We've sent word to Professor X about our findings, and he's offered to help if needed. But as you said, Wanda, neither of our teams has worked with their new group yet..." 

"And they're still pretty green," said the Human Torch. 

"Johnny!", warned Sue Storm. 

"Perhaps we could put it another way, Torch," said Cap. "But, off the record, that's pretty much our feelings too. The FF and Avengers have worked together multiple times. It'll be easier for us to coordinate efforts with just our two groups." 

"As long as we keep lines of communication open to them and to independents," said the Vision, "my computer brain indicates that this is a reasonably valid plan." 

"Then I guess it's official," said the Wasp. "Looks like the Avengers / FF joint task force is on the boards." 

"Friend Wasp, couldst thou explain to me the meaning of 'on the boards'?", asked Hildegarde, the big Valkyrie. 

"It means it's a going thing, dearie," said Jan. 

Hildegarde gave her a puzzled look. 

"She doth mean, the plan is approved, Hildegarde," explained Thor. 

"Ah," nodded Hilde. "'On the boards'. 'Going thing.' I must remember these phrases. The more I know, the more I shall understand the taxi drivers in this city." 

Captain America hefted the gavel. "I guess the only thing that remains is for me to get together with Reed and firm up plans. All in favor of such action, say 'Aye.'" 

"AYE," echoed the assemblage. 

"Then on behalf of both teams, I declare this meeting adjourned," said Cap, and banged the table with his gavel. 

Jarvis materialized in the doorway with a cartful of food. "If you please, ladies and gentlemen, the banquet will now be served." 

"Me for a Big Mac and fries," lumbered the Thing. 

"Behave yourself, Ben," said Sue. 

-M- 

The true hunter never ceases to stalk his prey until it is caught. It may take years, but, despite the setbacks, such an individual will never stray far from his course until his objective is bagged. 

Kraven was a true hunter. 

Edging his head up from over the roof of a building in Manhattan, he surveyed the scene below with a pair of binoculars. Spider-Man had returned to action after a hiatus. It was risky to team integrity, what he was doing now. The Sinister Six had made a pact to keep out of the limelight until the plan was activated. 

But Kraven was his own man. He would be damned before he would let another tell him who and where and when he must hunt. 

Spider-Man thought he kept his patrol routes random. But everything has a pattern, and Kraven had observed the places in which his prey had appeared more than once. From there, it was easy enough to map out what routes the spider took on his nocturnal journeys. He even had a rough but accurate schedule of what times were devoted to the patrols. 

Now, all that remained was to wait for the web-slinger, and act. Another man would have prayed for success. But Kraven knew that all one could hope for was to see one's quarry in sight. From there on, it was up to the man himself. 

From his vest, Kraven took a piece of jerky and munched it, thoughtfully. Not enough to sate, just to keep one's needs at bay. The hungry lion was the best hunter. The design on his vest and the real mane of a lion he had killed, hung about his neck, were there to remind him of their shared nature. 

Still, it was all for naught until he stalked and bagged the spider. 

The hunter waited. The sun set in the Manhattan jungle, and the artificial lights came out to take the place of the stars and moon. Kraven had learned to adjust himself to these conditions long ago. Even through the stench of exhaust fumes from many stories below, he could smell his quarry. 

There! What was that? 

Swiftly, but not too obviously, Kraven turned himself to the west. A human figure, barely visible, was swinging from building to building, hanging onto an old webline by his left hand, thrusting out his right to spin a new one and attach it to a structure before him. Within seconds, Spider-Man would pass the Daily Bugle building. 

His spider-sense had to be accounted for. The only way to countermove it was to strike so quickly, the warning would be of no effect. 

Kraven took from a pouch the device he had modified once from the Green Goblin, who had once employed him to attempt the spider's defeat. It consisted of a small heat-seeking missile with an enveloping steel net packed about it. The net could be triggered by remote control. Kraven pitched the missile over the edge of the building, watched it fall for an instant, and then pushed a control button on his belt. Red fire shot out from its exhaust. The rocket shot forward, arced, took a path that sent it unerringly towards the spider. 

As it did so, Kraven clamped a grappling hook on the building edge, wrapped one end of a rope about his wrist, and leaped from the top of the building. Behind him, the rope spooled out from a reel connected to the hook. 

The hunter was leaping for his prey. 

Spider-Man barely had time to get his warning tingle and turn towards the oncoming rocket before it bypassed him, released the net, and impacted against the side of the Bugle building. He twisted himself away as the missile exploded and then fell towards the ground. Considering he was falling in about the same manner, Spider-Man didn't concern himself much with it, except for hoping the pedestrians had sense enough to get out of the way. 

There were about ten stories between him and the ground. The mesh of the net was fine enough to make firing any webs very difficult. But the alternative, he had to admit, was quite a bit nastier. 

With an effort, Spider-Man twisted his right hand sufficiently to aim his web-shooter between strands of the net, tapped his palm-button twice, and fired. 

The web spewed forth from the small nozzle of his wrist-device, struck the granite side of the Bugle building, and stuck. Spidey, within the tangles of the net, grabbed the other end of the web line with both hands and tried to twist his body around to contact the wall with his feet. It was coming up quickly... 

WHAM. 

One foot, a shoulder, and part of the side. It hurt. But he lived. 

People below were pointing up at him and shouting. People above were leaning out of windows, pointing down, and shouting. Among those, he was almost certain he saw Joe Robertson. Jonah wasn't anywhere to be seen, and that was just fine with him. 

The old spider-sense was sending off a four-alarmer as he began testing his strength against the netting. 

It tended to be directional, so he looked towards where it was indicating. A powerful figure had just descended a rope to the street on the other side. There were eight lanes of traffic between him and the other side. The light was against him. 

From the way he bounded, flipped, outran, and avoided every oncoming car in seconds with a minimum of effort, Spider-Man had little problem placing him. 

"Kraven," he muttered. 

Spider-Man was sticking by the adhesion of three fingertips and part of one foot to the fifth floor of the Daily Bugle building. Kraven shoved over three people on the street, ignored a cop's whistle, and scaled the building side by use of flagpoles, windows, and cracks between granite blocks within three minutes. 

"Now, spider," he said, springing at his prey. "Now..." 

He heard a groan of effort as he hurtled forward. 

Spider-Man tore the steel netting asunder before his eyes. 

"Wrong, Krave-baby," he said, grabbing his enemy. "That was then. This is now." 

A red, web-gloved hand thrust forward and dusted Kraven's jaw, even as the hunter grabbed for his throat. 

The two of them fought there for several terrible seconds, Kraven hanging onto Spider-Man, Spider-Man sticking to the side of the building by the soles of his feet. Both landed powerful blows. Kraven knocked Spider-Man's web-slinging hand away with a wrist-chop. Spider-Man clouted a boar's tusk smeared with exotic poison away from Kraven's grasp. 

In the distance, Kraven heard sirens. 

He was used to making split-second decisions. Anything else, in the bush, would have cost him his life many times over. True, it was paramount that he defeat the spider, that he restore his honor. But it was even more important that this time, he not be captured by superior forces. That the secret he was privy to not be revealed. 

Even if he knew little more than its name. 

The hunter thrust himself away from the prey. He dropped several stories, grabbed one of the flagpoles hanging over the first floor, spun himself around several times, and let go, landing on his feet. Then he leaped away, barely missing a spurt of Spider-Man's web that gummed up the sidewalk. 

In seconds, Kraven was down a nearby subway entrance and lost to pursuers. By the time the backup cops arrived, Spider-Man was gone as well. 

Not more than an hour afterward, Kraven opened the door of a certain chamber. The Vulture's visage gazed out at him. There was a hint of contempt. 

"We heard about it," rasped the bald, beaky, winged man. 

"I'm glad you did." Kraven shouldered his way through. The complement of the Sinister Six, the Frightful Four, and the Emissaries of Evil were gathered. Dr. Octopus, the Wizard, and Electro, the joint leaders, were looking the most displeased of all. But Kraven knew they would go easy with him, even so. 

"You endangered the plan," said Octopus. "With a vendetta." 

Kraven didn't look at the six-armed man until he pulled out his chair and seated himself at the table. Then he gave him a cold stare. "I endangered nothing. I was not caught." 

"Lucky you," replied Electro. 

"I never hunt without making sure of an escape route," Kraven answered. "The spider would have been mine, had not the police arrived." 

"Yeah," said the Gladiator. "Like he woulda been yours about fifteen times already. Dumb, Kraven." 

The hunter was on his feet in an instant. The Gladiator leaned forward, his deadly wrist-blades spinning. Between the two of them, two huge hands of sand sprang up and pushed them back. "Hey, hey, hey," said the Sandman. "Lay off. Both of you. Or I'll sand-blast ya both." 

The enemies of Spider-Man and Daredevil stared at each other with rivalry for a long moment. Then both eased a bit, and the Sandman pushed them more or less gently to either side of the room. 

The Wizard, clad in his flight suit, regarded both with contempt. "Don't you know what you're endangering with your adventurism? The lot of us stand to be conquerors. Real conquerors, for the first time. You, Kraven, endanger the plan by stalking Spider-Man alone. Don't you realize that you'll have him for certain in a very short time?" 

"I wished to ensure it was by my hand alone," said Kraven, coldly. 

"Nothing can be by one hand alone," said Dr. Octopus. "Not in this matter. Not unless you want all other hands against you." 

Kraven looked upon the lot of them. Their numbers included the Trapster, Mysterio, the Leap Frog, and the Matador. He didn't fear them, but the odds they presented as a group were far more than he could beat. Besides, as they said, there was the plan. 

"I consider the incident forgotten," he said. 

Electro said, "That'll have to do for now. Just don't run off half-cocked like that again. If you got caught–" 

"I will not be caught!" 

"If you got caught, the whole thing could be blown. Like that." Electro snapped his fingers and a great electric spark was born, flickered, and died in three seconds' time. "So what'll it be? Are you part of the team, or are you out?" 

A long pause. 

"I'll stay," said Kraven. 

"Good," said Octopus. 

"Gladiator," said Electro, "this thing stops right here. Okay?" 

"If you say so," said the iron-masked man. "As long as Clyde Beatty over there keeps on his side of the line." 

"Have a care, masked man," warned Kraven. 

"Stop it, both of you," snapped the Wizard. "You both have the depth of a paper plate. We have contacted our benefactor. There has been a word from him." 

The hunter looked at the Frightful Four's leader. "And the word is?" 

"Soon," said the Wizard. "Very soon." 

"Be prepared, my friend," said the Matador, draping his cape over his arm and striking a pose with his sword. "For the greatest hunt of your life." 

-M- 

"So. Henry. What the [expletive deleted] is the news on the Ryker's Island business?" 

"Regrettably, Mr. President, nothing more than we already know. The supercriminals have escaped or been released in some manner unknown to both the penal authorities and ourselves." 

"Well, Henry, don't they, uh, that is, the prisons do have cameras and monitors, don't they?" 

"Yes, Mr. President, they do. But each time these, uh, 'disappearances' occur, the monitor signal is somehow blocked. Raw videotape footage is blanked out." 

"Erased?" 

"Just blank." 

"Somebody who knows what they're doing. Maybe some ex-spooks from our side or theirs." 

"Or another side, Mr. President. Such as Hydra." 

"So, uh, what you're saying is that, they're gone. And we have no trace on any of them as yet." 

"That seems to be the case, Mr. President." 

"What has SHIELD got on this, Henry?" 

"They are working on it. I believe the Avengers and Fantastic Four are also considering joint action. But if they have a single clue as of yet, sir, it's unknown to me." 

"CIA? NSA?" 

"As blind as we are ourselves, Mr. President." 

"Humph. All right, Henry, keep me, uh, keep me posted on that. What's, uh, what's Mitchell doing right about now?" 

"He's at home, sir." 

"Call him up. I want to see if he can, uh, if he can give me anything about these union-suit guys." 

"Yes, Mr. President." 

"And he'd better be doing something about the Lennon business, too." 

"Ach, yes, Mr. President." 

-M- 

Only the most trusted radicals were permitted in the meeting. Usually David Graine handled things as the boss's representative. This time, Gary Gilbert himself made an appearance. The five who were meeting with him were impressed, even if they tried to hide it. 

The meeting was winding down. "That's all you need to know for now," Gilbert finished, seated in a futon in the basement room. "You'll get your walking orders soon. If anybody screws this one up, the whole thing could collapse from Maine to Sacramento. But before that happened, I'd find the guy who screwed it. Believe me." 

"What Gary's saying is, the watchwords are Secrecy and Discipline," Graine put in. "We've told you all you need to know right now, and we've told you all your crews need to know. Any more info than that, we're all busted. The Establishment, Nixon, the whole power crew, they win. And this time, it'll take a lot more than some hotshot ACLU lawyer to save our butts, if we blow it. So don't blow it." 

"Man, would you just give us some trust?" said Archie McCown, representing one of the biggest radical assemblies on the East Coast. "You asked us here. You gave us your plan. That must imply we got somethin' on the ball, don'tcha think?" 

"This isn't some penny-ante Maggia meeting, McCown," said Gilbert. "We're not dividing up turf. We're talking about a Revolution. The Revolution." 

"They been talkin' about that for more than six years now," pointed out Ake Harmon of the Stone Warriors, a black militant faction with chapters on both coasts and adherents even in the Midwest. "We been talkin' 'bout that for longer than that, even." 

"Not the real thing, Ake," said Graine. "Not something this close. We can make something that'll have those black flag guys in France takin' notes from us. Show the frogs how to do a revolution right." 

"All talk so far," said Miranda Slade, a feminist militant from California. "If the sex ratio in this place was reversed, we'd've had this thing over and done with by now." 

"Oooo, do I hear that time of the month talkin'?" said McCown. Miranda eyed him and drew an inch of bayonet out of a belt sheath. Gary Gilbert turned his face towards her. She looked at him and put the knife back. 

"Patch it up, Archie," said Gary. "Now." 

"All apologies, Slade," McCown said. "Sincerely." 

She said nothing. 

"I got a question, Gilbert," said Carl Parks. He was a big, broad-shouldered guy from Colorado who, with a few years on him, might be mistaken for a union organizer. "A big question." 

The tension rose a degree. Parks had been silent and still for most of the evening. That was his way. When he spoke, it was usually trouble. 

"Then go ahead, Carl," said Gary, evenly. "We've got lots of answers." 

Parks proceeded slowly. "The question is you, man." 

More than one breath was taken in. Gary sat stonelike. "Define it." 

The big man stood, his hands at his side. In his coat pockets he had more than one weapon, and he wasn't afraid to use them, in case his fists didn't do the job. They usually did. "You say you're a revolutionary, but I don't exactly see credentials. All we know is what you tell us. That you used to be some small-time super-baddie in a tin suit." 

"Carl, easy, man," said Graine. "You're treadin' on live wires." 

"Let him talk," said Gary, quietly. 

"So far, all we know is that you were in a couple of marches, got maced, and that was that," Parks continued. "You've bankrolled some of our ops, some of the other guys', and thanks and whoop-de-do for that. But there's something I wanna know, man. I really wanna know it." 

Gary looked at him. "Then ask." 

"Why is it you're still makin' weapons for 'Nam, man? If you're such a big, bad revolutionary, why in HELL are you still makin' stuff that Big Brother is usin' to kill people down in Asia? I want to know that, man! If you're real, why the hell have you got one foot on each side of the fence? Unless, maybe, you ain't got anything in between to endanger?" 

Ake said, "You better backtrack, buddy. You really better backtrack." 

"No, it's all right," said Gary, rising from his seat. "I've got answers, Carl. Three of them, as a matter of fact. Listen up. 

"First answer: The Revolution's about to happen. It's within touching distance. The weapons I manufacture are going to have a very short shelf-life. Not more than 20 per cent are ever going to see action. That may be 20 per cent too much, but let's face it: it's worth the sacrifice. We know that. You know that. Or you ought to. 

"Second answer: we do it to take up the slack left by Stark to get money for the Revolution. This stuff has to be paid for. You do know that, right? Good. No money, no Revolution. 

"Third answer: because it's damned well part of my plan." 

With that, he gave Parks a roundhouse savate kick in the stomach. 

"Gary!" shouted Graine. 

Parks was gasping for breath, doubled, unable to defend himself. Gilbert's face was a mask of fury. That, to the others, was the scariest thing about it. His hands, balled into fists, lashed out time and again, pounding flesh, fracturing bone, striking expertly. His booted foot landed more than one time. Once, it broke Parks's right wrist when he was reaching for the gun in his pocket. The others tried to go to Parks's aid. Graine, tensely, put himself between them and the other two. 

It was over within five minutes. Parks was unconscious, his face a bloody pulp. 

Gary Gilbert stood there, sweaty, red-faced, red-handed, and grinning. 

"All right, lady and gentlemen," he said. "Are we of one mind?" 

After a pause, Ake spoke. "We're with you, man. We're with you." 

-M- 

Nobody really expected the Masters of Evil to hole up in Ohio, least of all the Masters themselves. But they had their money, they had their orders, and they thought the plan sounded valid. So, in mufti and in a couple of Winnebagos, they waited, played cards, and killed several bottles of Scotch. 

The Radioactive Man had to be taught the finer points of poker, but now he was as sharp a card shark as any of them. He was dealing seven-card draw. The others around the table included the Melter, Klaw, the Whirlwind, and the Executioner. The Enchantress, who had brought herself and Skurge there from Asgard, looked on the game with disdain. 

Klaw was having difficulty handling his cards. This was hardly surprising, since one of his hands had been replaced by a sonic blaster. "The worst hand of the night," he pronounced. "Is the woman there cursing my cards?" 

She sniffed. "Your luck is so bad it hardly needs assistance, red one." 

"Peace, Amora," muttered the Executioner. "Two pasteboards shall I have." 

"A beer I shall have," said the Whirlwind. "In fact, the whole damn state of Ohio I shall have, if somebody doesn't give us some action before long." 

"Ever heard the phrase, 'Be careful what you wish for'?" put in the Melter. "I'll take three." 

As the Radioactive Man was dealing, the light of a communications device by the wall went on. The villains who were in position to notice it went silent. 

The Melter pushed a switch down. "Acknowledged," he said. 

A voice came through the speaker. "Head for Chicago. Deploy between 1200 and 1500 hours tomorrow. You will be joined by other units." 

The four other players folded their cards. Even the Enchantress grew attentive. The call to action was being given. 

The Melter had to take a deep breath before saying the next thing. "Password?" 

"Fire." 

To be continued...   



	11. Part 11:  Captain and Chaos

FIRE! 

Part 11 

by DarkMark 

The realm of the Nightmare World was such that would drive a normal man mad. Even a sorcerer had to guard his mind once within it. Dr. Strange was no stranger to the dreamworld, though he wished it were a little less familiar to him at times. The dripping islands, the disembodied snake-jaws, the shifting landscapes, the terrible beasts...these things were all too well-known to him. 

So was Nightmare, the ruler of this world. 

"In the name of the hoary Hoggoth / By Seraphim's mighty shade / This power arrayed against me / Against my foe be laid!" Strange saw the magical energies escaping from his fingers, and flashed back, momentarily, to the first time he had done such a thing under the Ancient One's tutelage. It never failed to awe him, just an iota. 

The cage of dreamstuff which Nightmare had constructed about him dissolved, boiled over gaseously towards the green-clad, chalk-white-faced dictator of dreams. Nightmare tried to avoid it, but that proved futile. In a trice, the plasmic bars, floor, and roof encased him, and there was very little room to move within. 

"Damn you, Strange!" rasped the dream king. 

"Save your curses," replied Strange. "We have played this scene before." 

"As we will again and again, until the time of your death," vowed Nightmare. "I have existed since the first man had a dream of terror. How long will you last, Strange? How long?" 

"Until I find a successor," said the magician. "Then he will prove sufficient to protect mankind from you. Now I have a question." 

"For you, I have no answers!" Nightmare gripped the whitish bars of his prison in rage. 

The red cloak of Dr. Strange billowed about him in almost a manner of warning. "Take care, Nightmare. I will not release you from that cell until you give me what I wish. Had you simply agreed to that when I came here, none of this would have been necessary." 

Sullenly, Nightmare said, "Speak your question. I will give you an answer." 

The mage folded his arms. "The Orb of Agomotto has indicated much jeopardy for my world. Part of it mystical, some merely bleeding over from the natural. What can you tell me of this?" 

Nightmare smiled. 

"I can tell you that you are at the cusp of a time which will make your world all too much like mine, Strange. But that is all I will say." 

"You are bound, Nightmare." 

"I gave you an answer, Strange. I did not say or imply that you would like it. Well?" 

Dr. Strange paused and looked at his old foe with disgust. "As you say, Nightmare.   
Great Vishanti, three in number   
Hear the wishes I impart   
Free my foeman from this prison   
Only after I depart!'" 

The lord of Nightmares reached between the bars and tried to grasp his foe, but couldn't manage it. "One day, Strange. One day, the nightmare without ending will be yours." 

"Only if you are quicker than all the rest," remarked Strange. He gestured again with his orange-gloved hand. "Until next time, Nightmare." 

A warp opened into the waking world. Strange walked through it. It closed behind him. Then the cage of Nightmare dissolved into mist. He leaped at the place Strange had been, but there was nothing there. He fell chest-flat on the dream-substance ground. 

After awhile, he smiled. 

"Just so, Strange," he muttered. "If I do not take you, that which you will face should do the job for me." 

-M- 

Hell broke loose in Chicago during the afternoon lunch hour. 

Hardly anyone in the city had seen the Masters of Evil anywhere except on television. They were New York villains, and stayed in their own backyard, for the most part. The Democratic Convention had all the chaos the Windy City cared for, and they didn't want any more. 

But right now, they had it. 

The Enchantress warped into the space between the pitcher's mound and third base at Soldier's Field and, in a voice that carried farther than even the PA system, cast a spell which basically petrified the thousands of Cubs fans in the stadium. Nobody seemed to know why she had done it. 

The Melter turned up at O'Hare Airport and started reducing planes to slagheaps of aluminium, steel, and unmelted plastic. When guards opened up on him, he melted their bullets. When they tried to physically bumrush him, a figure standing beside him threw off his overcoat and hat, stood revealed as the Radioactive Man, and gave off a deadly green glow. The airport cops retreated behind wooden barriers and called in a report. 

Klaw ascended Sears Tower and used the television tower to help augment and distribute the power of his sonic claw. He sent out a screech of white noise that knocked whole blocks full of people unconscious, created a series of traffic accidents, and caused those on the periphery to flee with their hands over their ears. When cops tried to get to the upper floors with plugs in their ears, they were chased back downstairs by several strange red panthers that didn't react to bullets. 

Whirlwind appeared in the open square where the big iron Picasso statue was situated and stirred up a near-tornado that scattered pedestians, pigeons, vehicles, and anything else not tied down. A bunch of them went to hide in the Catholic church nearby, and tried to clamber under the pews when the winds from without blew in the stained glass windows. Thankfully, the Picasso stayed where it was. 

And City Hall was taken by a huge berserker in strange armor and a horned iron helmet that concealed all of his head. He bore a battle-axe that served to ward off the steel-jacketed bullets of guards and cut its way easily through stone, metal, glass, and most all other things that got in his way. Thankfully, none of them were human; those obstacles he tossed out of his way without much thought. 

The warrior had been told where the mayor's office was, and moved faster than word could travel. The city's finest didn't have time to get Richard Daley out of the back way. The mighty axe dismembered the doors intervening, and rendering the troop of armed guards senseless required only a few motions of powerful, metal-gloved hands. Then one of those hands went to Daley's shirtfront, and lifted the mayor's large body from behind his desk almost without effort. The intruder held Daley off the floor, helpless, and stared into the frightened man's eyes. 

The Democratic convention a few years back had been lousy enough. But this... 

"Call your heralds," said the Executioner. "Tell the world we want the Avengers." 

-M- 

Steve Rogers lie in bed beside Sharon Carter and tried to find words. 

The blonde beauty raised up a bit. "Penny for 'em, Steve?" 

He tried to smile. "You could have them for free, Sharon. Really. It's just that..." 

"Uh huh?" 

He smoothed his own blonde hair back a bit, using both hands. "It's just that I'm not sure America is America anymore." 

"Oh, please, Steve. We get enough of that from the Right these days. You told me you were a liberal." 

"Well, I am, Sharon." Cap lay back in bed and sighed again. "I'm a Roosevelt liberal. But in those days we were trying to hold the country together, not tear it apart." 

"It isn't going to come apart, Steve. No matter what they show us on the evening news, the protests and the bombings and the blacks and everything, there's more of us trying to hold it together than tear it apart." 

"Are there?" 

She turned to him, her full breasts visible above the blue sheet of his bed. "You know it. And as long as we've got SHIELD, and Captain America, to depend on, I don't think..." 

"Stop it, Sharon." He turned to her, almost glowering. "Do you think I'm God?" 

"Of course not! Do you think you are?" 

"No!" He almost shrank back. "Of course not. But..." 

"Then it's settled. Steve, listen." She lay what she hoped were soothing fingers on his bicep, and wondered for the millionth time at the power it betold. "Okay. We know all about World War II." 

"No. I'm sorry, Sharon, but you weren't there." 

"My stepsister was. You know that, Steve. And what I'm saying is..." 

"Sharon..." 

"...What I'm saying, Steve, is that you can't be a legend. You just can't be. You're a man, all right? What they make of you, what they write you up to be, what you're all cracked up to be is...well, it's not what you are." 

"I know," he said. "I know better than anyone." 

"So why do you think you have to be this way? Why do you think you have to be some kind of, I don't know, an American Atlas and carry the whole country on your shoulders?" 

He laughed. "Atlas. You know, that's kind of an apt metaphor, Sharon. Lots of times, that's how I feel." 

She flopped back. "Here we go again." 

"All right. If you don't want to listen, I won't talk." 

"I'll listen," she said, looking at the ceiling. 

Steve sat up in bed, drawing up his knees under the sheet and clasping them. "When I was a young man, barely 21, I tried to get into the Army. The war was already on. We weren't in it yet...that would take about a year. But a lot of us knew we were going to be involved soon. I just couldn't sit around and watch Hitler do to the world what he did to Poland, or watch the Japanese take over the rest of Asia. Sure, I believed in Roosevelt. But I also had to do something myself. I was a physical wreck, Sharon." 

"You've told me, Steve." 

"All right. I've told you. Now let me tell it again, all right? Because it means something to me." 

She said nothing. 

"I won't go into all the stuff with Professor Erskine. You know all that. But...Sharon..." He raised his hand a bit, as if trying to grasp something in the air. "...what you don't know about is the responsibility. I didn't know about it then, either. I just knew that I was going to put on a costume, beat the blazes out of the Nazis at home and in Europe, and be a soldier when I wasn't being Captain America." 

Sharon, who was an agent of SHIELD, who had saved the world by destroying a phony Zemo's sun-mirror, who had saved the man beside her from the Fourth Sleeper, listened and knew she would never know all that Steve Rogers was and had been. She wondered if he did, himself. 

She wondered if anyone could. 

"It was so much more than I thought," said Steve, flatly and softly. "Trying to fit it into maneuvers and training at Fort Lehigh. Trying to track down saboteurs and fifth columnists as Cap, and trying to sleep in the midst of all that. Sometimes the fighting was the easiest part. Then a kid named Bucky...a kid named Bucky..." 

"Steve." Sharon raised up, put her hands on his back, massaged him. He felt like marble. 

"He learned who I was," Steve said. "He made me take him on as a partner. I thought it might work. I made a costume for him, trained him, thought he'd be the one who could inspire the kids of America to do their part for America, teach them that anybody could be a hero in his own way, no matter how young he was. And he did, Sharon. As my partner, and leading the Young Allies and the Kid Commandoes, he did. I was proud of the boy. Very proud. 

"But I had to take responsibility for him. 

"Then Pearl Harbor happened, and we had to save Winston Churchill...the first Torch, his boy Toro, Sub-Mariner, Bucky, and I. He named us the Invaders, and we decided to stick together as a unit. I was made the leader of the team. It wasn't exactly easy. The Torch and Namor were at each other's throats almost as many times as they were against the Nazis. The two boys...well, they liked each other, but they'd get into scraps about who was the tougher, me or the Torch, and we had to pull the both of them apart a lot. When they were with the YA's, we couldn't do a thing about it, but they worked together well. I..." 

"It's all right, Steve," said Sharon, still kneading his shoulders. "It's okay." 

"The Torch is gone, now. I learned that a few years back from the Fantastic Four. Toro died, too, about two years ago. Sub-Mariner was the first super-powered foe I fought, when the Avengers got me out of the ice in '64. I don't know if he's a friend or an enemy anymore, and I suspect that he doesn't, either. Bucky...God and Country, Sharon. If I hadn't done what I did to that boy, he might have been alive today." 

"Stop it, Steve." Sharon smacked him between the shoulder blades with the palm of her right hand. "Bucky Barnes made you take him on, remember? What could you have done? Let him tell the world you were Captain America? Shut him up yourself?" 

"Sharon!" 

She turned him around to face her. Not an easy task, even if he wasn't resisting much. "Don't you realize that people make their own choices? That even you can't keep them from doing so, even if it hurts them, sometimes? And Steve..." 

"Sharon..." 

"Steve, if you hadn't done what you did for Bucky, if you hadn't trained him as well as you did, he would have been dead a lot earlier! It took the Bucky you made to be able to face guys like the Red Skull, and come through it." 

He was silent. She thought she saw danger in his steel-blue eyes, but she wouldn't look away from him. "Steve, don't you see? You think you have more responsibility than you really do. You're not Jesus. You're only Captain America." 

"There's no 'only' to Captain America." 

She shook her head and waited for him to speak. 

"Steve Rogers can mess up. Captain America can't. He can never foul up, Sharon. Never. Not when the whole world's watching a man with the red, white, and blue on his back. Not when too many people think he's America made flesh. He can't be fallible, Sharon. He can only be human to a certain degree." 

"And what about you, Steve? Do you think he's America in the flesh?" 

He looked away from her. 

"Sometimes, Sharon, I don't know myself." 

He sat on the edge of the bed, his back towards her, and after a pause, he spoke. 

"If Captain America is America, what is he? I am a patriot, Sharon. I feel like the flag gives me its power, every time I put on the suit and carry the shield. But some people burn flags now, Sharon. They take the symbol of freedom, and they burn it. As if it were a cross on a Negro's yard. I believe in the worth of the black man, Sharon. My partner is the Falcon. But some black men burn cities and shoot policemen, and if I raise my hand against them, I'm branded as a pawn of the white establishment. As if American society, the Establishment, wasn't something to be proud of, instead of something to be scorned and discarded and...vilified. I believe in the American political system. But God only knows what it is now, and I'm not Him. I believe in war, Sharon, when it has to be. But we've been in this Vietnam conflict almost since I came back to life, and there doesn't seem to be a way of winning it, even if they'd let us. What should I think of draft-dodgers? Should I capture them at the border and send them back, to go to jail, or maybe to get blown apart trying to hold the line in that war? I believe in the right of free speech. But does it protect the obscenity I see in our art, or the destruction that the radicals create when they take over campuses and bomb buildings? Some of them want a revolution. And they're serious about it. A few of them think they're the modern equivalent of the men who broke from Britain in 1776, even if they're Marxists. I've tried to talk to some of them, but..." 

Steve Rogers stood, naked, and opened the door to his clothes closet. There was a portrait of Franklin Roosevelt in front of an American flag, hung on the inside of it. Sharon watched him as he looked at it and wondered if he was genuflecting before a saint. Somewhere within, she knew, in a hidden compartment, was the costume and shield of Captain America. 

Then he turned and looked at her with a face that showed genuine pain. 

"The only thing I can do is try to keep America together, Sharon. No matter what it is, no matter what it may become, that is what Captain America has to do. I'd give my life to save this country. 

"And in these days, Sharon, and in these times...it almost seems that nothing else may do that." 

She was about to say something when a buzzing noise came from elsewhere in the room. Steve crossed the space to his dresser almost before she could register it, visually. He pulled the top drawer open, grasped a small object, and pressed a button. 

"Cap here," he said, in a low voice. 

"Cap, it's Hawkeye," came the reply from a small speaker in the object. "You available?" 

"What's the problem?" 

"Masters of Evil. In Chicago." 

Sharon sat bolt upright. They were both hoping to spend his day off together before he had to go back to his policeman's beat. After all, there had been those difficulties with Val de Fontaine making a play for him. But surely, after all this time, they were allowed some time together. Surely he would let the other Avengers handle things. Surely, he would let duty go this one time... 

"I'm on my way, Clint," said Cap. "Out." 

He snapped off the communicator and went to his closet, vanishing within. She knew what he would be wearing when he came out. 

Damn him. 

No. 

Damn Captain America. 

-M- 

In a laboratory hidden somewhere within the perimeter of Gilbert Industries, two old partners worked, with a third, much larger presence standing motionless against one wall. They were almost friends, certainly allies, and always a threat to the order of the world's defenders. 

One of them toyed with radiant clay, molding it with lead-lined gloves and precise tools. Several of his figures, covered with thin layers of leaded paint, hung from the ceiling on strings. This was Phillip Masters, who was known more widely as the Puppet Master. He had begun as a foe of the Fantastic Four, the strange little man who could fashion lifelike puppets of his radioactive clay and use them to mentally control the persons whose image they bore. He was the stepfather of Alicia Masters, who was the Thing's beloved. That caused him no little consternation. He had, some years ago, had his face altered by plastic surgery for disguise purposes. But an accident two years ago burned his face badly, and further surgery had restored it to its normal appearance. 

If a face that resembled nothing more nor less than an evil ventriloquist's dummy could be called normal, that is. 

The man who had helped restore his partner's face stood nearby, in a drab green suit. His brown hair was cut long, not in the fashion of a modern pop star's, but almost as a parody of Einstein's. He, also, had been an enemy of the Fantastic Four. His own intellect was far in advance of that of the normal man, not quite the rival of Reed Richards's or Dr. Doom's, but not far behind them, either. Some years ago, he had recruited the Puppet Master for a joint operation against the Fantastic Four and the X-Men, and they came close to triumph. He was the Thinker, and the popular press usually prefaced his name with the word "Mad". 

The being who stood against the wall was at least fifteen feet tall and was grey and vaguely humanoid in shape. It had no face. Its massive head was roughly the shape of a brick. How it saw, if it did, how it heard, if it could, was a mystery. But there was a menace in its presence, as if an evil Golem was in the room. This entity, possibly alive, possibly not, was of superhuman strength in its natural state, but had virtually no intellect. The Thinker commanded it, thought for it, governed its life. He had created it. He had given it power to mimic the ability of other beings, only with the larger proportions of its own body. The usual name given to this being was the Awesome Android. That sounded laughable. People who had seen the Android didn't usually laugh. 

The Puppet Master used a screwdriver to fasten the arm to a blank-featured puppet. "Favor us with one of your predictions, Thinker?" 

The long-haired man poked the middle of a slide rule he always carried, and said, "97.00049 probability that we will be visited within the hour." 

"Then you think he's ready?" 

Before the Thinker could reply, a door slid back on servos and a business-suited man walked into the room. 

Gary Gilbert smiled. 

The Thinker stopped in his tracks. The Puppet Master dropped his screwdriver. The Android turned its massive head in the man's direction, but the Thinker looked at it and it froze in place. 

"Gentlemen," he said, "are we prepared?" 

The Thinker said, "Within a 98.407 probability, given the causality of the events set in place most recently, we can prognosticate..." 

"I said, are we prepared?" Gilbert was still smiling. Neither one of the other men thought it bespoke good will. 

The Puppet Master swallowed. "Everything is in readiness, Mr. Gilbert. I'll have enough figurines by tonight." 

"You're certain of that?" 

"Definitely, sir." 

Gilbert stepped so close to him that the Puppet Master feared he might be too closely exposed to the deadly clay. "There had best be a hundred per cent probability of that, Masters." 

"Yes, sir." 

A moment later, Gilbert turned to the Thinker. The savant betrayed little of his feelings, but Gilbert knew how to read him. "Your part is prepared. Correct?" 

"As stated," said the Thinker. 

"Remember. Your part will be decisive in this conflict. Botch this, and, my friend, you'll only wish you had Doctor Doom to answer to. Is that clear?" 

The Android shifted, slightly, as if readying itself to guard its master. 

"Eminently," the Thinker answered. 

"You are to stay in hiding for the present, remember that," Gilbert continued. "In hiding from everyone but me." 

Gary Gilbert turned and went out the door. It slid shut behind him. The Thinker looked after him for a long moment, and the Puppet Master chose a slightly grimy rag to mop his brow. 

"Well?" asked the puppeteer. "What do we do now?" 

The Thinker looked at him, almost with contempt. 

"Get back to work," he said. 

-M- 

PARKER 

That day I spent at Stark Labs, doing what I normally did. Sure, I heard about the Masters of Evil raising hell in Chicago. They told me Mr. Stark and Iron Man were going down there to help the Avengers fight them. But the Masters weren't my usual sparring partners, and Chicago wasn't my backyard. I wasn't some kind of globe-hopper, for the most part. I was just your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. 

I figured the Avengers could handle things. I went home to Gwen. We had dinner and did the things young marrieds usually do. Then we went to sleep. I figured that, even with all the trouble that America was going through right then, in my particular corner of it, all was right with the world. 

More fool I. 

Because they'd already lit the Fire. 

To be continued... 


	12. Part 12:  Opening Salvos

  
FIRE! 

Part 12 

by DarkMark 

The Avengers Quinjet was capable of landing on darned near anything. That came in handy sometimes, such as today. They were able to land it right on the playing ground at Soldier's Field, where the Masters of Evil had assembled. The Executioner still had Mayor Daley in hand, and the Enchantress was still keeping the fans and ballplayers in a stasis spell. Altogether, it looked like a classic set-up. 

But the team had walked into deadlier traps than this, and come out smiling in the end. 

Hawkeye, Cap, Thor, Sif, Iron Man, the Scarlet Witch, Quicksilver, the Vision, Ant-Man, and the Wasp were inside the aircraft, quickly undoing their safety belts and streaming out of the opened hatch. Clint noticed that the Vision and Quicksilver were keeping their distance from one another, and didn't have to ask why. But he did notice a certain expression on Cap's face...not just tense, but thoughtful. 

He had to ask about that. "Penny for 'em, Cap?" 

"Back in the War, the Invaders came under the influence of the Red Skull once," Captain America said, not taking his eyes off the enemy as he arose from his seat. "He turned us into villains and made us confront the Liberty Legion at the big ballpark in New York." 

"So this..." 

"This reminds me of that. Yeah." Cap swung himself out the hatch as he spoke. Hawkeye did his best to catch up. 

Thor had his hand on Quicksilver's shoulder. "Be not rash in thy advance, friend Pietro," he said. "There be more to this gathering than verily 'twould seem." 

"If you mean this smells like a trap, Thor, I agree," grated Quicksilver. "But nothing will stop me from tearing that spinning pretender into pieces no bigger than a child's top." 

"That being said, do so, Quicksilver," advised Sif, her sword already drawn. "But with care." 

The Quinjet had landed in the outfield and the villains were clustered roughly between home plate and second base. The Cubs and their opponents had been stacked, thoughtfully, like cordwood near the dugout. The Executioner was still holding his axe in one hand and Mayor Daley in the other. 

"They're here," gasped the mayor. "Can you let me go now?" 

The Executioner turned his helmeted head, in disdain, and opened his hand. The mayor fell on his backside. "Begone," said Skurge. 

Daley didn't have to be told twice. He ran past the piles of stacked ballplayers and was gone. Nobody could blame him. 

Quicksilver was already sprinting. Even the other Avengers had trouble tracking him. Iron Man activated his jets and took to the air, keeping his eyes on the Melter but making for the Radioactive Man. He felt his armor could shield him from most of the Chinese villain's output. 

Thor and Sif were heading pell-mell for the Executioner and Enchantress, ready to close on their Asgardian foemen. Hawkeye notched a blast arrow to his bow and let fly at the Masters. Hank Pym, already in his Ant-Man helmet and costume, shrunk to mite-size along with the Wasp and cybernetically summoned a flying ant to ride into battle. The Vision changed density and, airy-light, flew at the enemy, intending to become diamond-hard when he contacted them. The Scarlet Witch lifted her arms for a hex and fought down a chill, earned from the first time when she had fought and been overwhelmed by the Enchantress. 

And Captain America lifted his shield arm, in full-tilt charge, and sounded the battle cry: 

"AVENGERS ASSEMBLE!" 

There was something wrong. The team of Executioner, Enchantress, Whirlwind, Melter, Klaw, and Radioactive Man weren't coming at them. They were just standing pat and, from what the Avengers could see of them, grinning. 

In mid-field, Iron Man slammed into a barrier. Quicksilver did the same, a little further downfield. Both of them, and the ones who crashed into it seconds later, were immobilized and pained. The blasted thing, glowing and apparently as thick as a sheet of paper, just wouldn't give. 

Then a hole seemed to open in the air above them, and the barrier dissolved. It had done its work. 

Out of the hole (and the Avengers had seen enough space-warps not to be astonished at them, very much) tumbled four figures that the team had once seen, fought, and never expected to see again. They had been tailored specifically by the Grandmaster to fight the heroes in a tournament he had never lost, until then. 

Hyperion. Nighthawk. The Whizzer. Doctor Spectrum. 

Altogether, they were known as the Squadron Sinister. 

Klaw spoke, in a voice that echoed throughout the entire stadium: "We brought guests." 

Hawkeye, whose blast arrow had detonated harmlessly on Dr. Spectrum's force barrier, swore under his breath and grabbed another arrow. "Things just got a lot more interestin'." 

"You expected anything less?" asked Ant-Man, flying near his ear. 

"Heck, no, Hank. Let's go get 'em!" 

Dr. Spectrum's power prism emitted a blast that tore up turf, shook the Avengers off their pins, and spearheaded an attack that was echoed by Hyperion flying down and smashing Thor and Sif off the ground with a single blow. 

Who was getting whom was quickly in question. 

-M- 

Nobody quite expected the Statue of Liberty to rise up off its pedestal and hover over the waters just off Bedloe's Island, but the Wizard managed it, with some help from his partners. 

The Wizard, longtime head of the Frightful Four, was the creator of anti-gravity disks that exerted tremendous lifting power and negated the force of gravity within their reach. Of course, the Sandman had to transform himself into a living plane of hardened, sharpened sand and sever the connections between the Statue and its base to make it possible, but he received credit for it from the rest. The Trapster, Electro, and a few others had put the tourists and guards to flight, so they had the place temporarily to themselves. 

It looked like they were trying to draw attention, and it worked. 

As soon as the first reports hit the TV screen, President Nixon ordered a state of national emergency. The Fantastic Four trundled out of bed, dressed, and were in the Fantasti-Car within minutes. They took their breakfasts with them and ate on the way. 

Johnny Storm, in his non-flaming state, looked at the buildings of New York passing by below at rapid speed and went into the zone for a minute. The Thing, sitting in the unit beside him and looking as vulnerable as the planet Jupiter, gave him a look. "What's up, match-head?" 

"Aw, not much, Ben. Just remembering how I used to be scared of heights when I was a kid. Climbed on top of Dad's garage and couldn't get down. He had to climb up and get me. And now..." 

"Yeah. Things do kinda change when ya got the power to fly, don't they?" 

"How was it with you, Ben? I mean, when you learned to fly?" 

The Thing, knowing he had about five minutes left for talk, looked out at the Statue hovering sixty feet above the water. "Ah, you know. It just happened." 

"Like how?" 

Ben Grimm looked at his young friend, across a generation of time. "Got out of college in May of '41. Lookin' for a job as a football coach. Made assistant to P.S. 47 in August, ain't nowhere near my old neighborhood, an' that was good. Didn't wanna go back there 'cept for a visit. Then December, wham. Signed up on the 8th for the Army, got into the air corps, you know the rest." 

"What about that time you got captured in the Pacific?" 

"You don't wanna hear about that. Even I don't wanna hear about that." 

"I'm sorry, Ben." 

"Not half as sorry as me." Ben winced, remembering the torture he'd endured at the hands of the Japanese on that island, remembering how he'd saved the life of his rescuer, Captain Simon Savage, but gotten his hands burned so badly he couldn't fly. So he got in a plane with Savage and told him what to do. They got back to safety. 

A year and a half after that, Simon Savage was on a ship that got torpedoed by the Japs. That was how it went. 

Reed was speaking. "Our first objective is to get the Statue back on its pedestal. Ben, Johnny, I want you to run interference for us when we get attacked. Sue, you keep the ship guarded with your force-field. I'll get above the Statue and see what I can do." 

What Reed Richards could do, Johnny knew, was probably pull something out of his back pocket that could invert the universe in five minutes if that was what was needed for the situation. Maybe this would be his last gig with the Fantastic Four for awhile. Then again, considering the frequency in which they found themselves mixed up with super-villains, maybe not. 

Anyway... 

Johnny Storm loosened his flight harness, put his hands on the fireproofed sides of the Fantasticar unit, and stood up partway. 

"FLAME ON!" 

The Human Torch shot upward on a jet of fire. 

The Thing smiled grimly and touched a button on the control panel before him with one of his four massive fingers. The wing of his Fantasticar section began to uncouple from the main unit. Within three seconds, it was free and the afterburners were firing. Heck, yeah, it was like being back in the Pacific Theater. Just like those damn aircraft carrier takeoffs that just about made him toss his cookies for two months. 

Stretcho ought to have been glad he was in the OSS, and only had to ride the things, not fly 'em. 

The two Fantastic Four members headed towards the Statue of Liberty in a rough pincers movement. The main Fantasticar unit, containing Reed and Sue Richards, was banking at an angle that would send it straight over Lady Liberty's greenish crown. Reed stretched his rubbery limbs a bit to make access to various controls easier. Sue Richards's face was locked in an expression of concentration. Without seeing it, Reed knew she was surrounding the Fantasticar in an invisible force-field. 

He brought the craft over the Statue, cutting the afterburners and putting the hover units below on full. From there, Reed could feel the effects of the Wizard's anti-grav discs. Their power was enough to hurl the Fantasticar up and into the stratosphere, if he didn't keep control of the situation. Thankfully, he expected he could do that. 

A massive purple disk was very visible on top of the Statue's head. If he pulled that off or deactivated it, its lifting power would be negated. Also, the Statue of Liberty would plummet to the bottom of the bay and probably break apart. 

"Ready, Reed?" asked Sue. 

"Just about," said Reed, and took a slightly smaller disk out from a compartment beneath his seat. He was no stranger to the Wizard's anti-gravity theories, and this device should manage the situation, if it worked properly. 

Two trains of thought diverged in Reed's mind. He was capable of maintaining quite a lot of such trains, almost like (he laughed, internally) a cerebral Grand Central Station. While he kept his mind on the main action, he couldn't stop these secondary trains from wandering. 

Down one track: how long had he been doing this sort of thing? He'd signed up for the Army on the same day as Ben Grimm in '41, taken the IQ tests, got offered the chance to work with Wild Bill Donovan in OSS, and jumped at it. For most of the War, he'd been in secret ops, which often took him into the field on rescue missions or sabotage, and in strategy, which was somewhat safer...for him. 

Then, after the war, he'd had about sixteen years of relative peace. So had Ben. He'd invented many things, retained just as many patents, made millions of dollars. Invented, designed, and created the Pocket Rocket. The one Jack Kennedy wouldn't allow to fly to the moon, since it wasn't tested enough. 

But Masters Khruschev and Castro, among others, had convinced Reed that the time had come to show the Sputnik-wielders a thing or two about space exploration. He'd hijack the Pocket Rocket himself, take it to the Moon and back, and prove the Communists were second-raters compared to the Free World, once again. Somehow, Ben, Johnny, and Sue got into the act... 

...and all of them knew how that had turned out. 

Then, it was back to another war in short order, against super-villains, Atlanteans, aliens, Skrulls, Kree, and just about everything in between. He was responsible for the creation of the Fantastic Four. 

And he wondered how long he could go on being responsible for its existence. 

The other train headed down a more suspicious track. The Frightful Four and whoever else was with them had nothing much to gain from this stunt, financially. You couldn't exactly hold the Statue of Liberty for ransom. 

No. The only reason they did this was to lure whomever came to the rescue into a trap. 

Reed elongated his arm to an amazing extent, slapped the magnetically-affixed disk to the bottom of the Fantasticar between the hover-jets, and kept the craft steady above the Statue. It was hard to say that this had anything to do with what the Avengers were facing in Chicago. Super-villains operated simultaneously very often, and different super-heroes had to take care of them. 

But, with the Riker's Island breaks, it wasn't likely all this could be chalked up to coincidence. He'd have to get together with Jasper Sitwell later and compare notes. 

He activated the disk on the bottom of the Fantasticar. This had to be done precisely, like a lab experiment. The results of failure...well, at least no life would be lost. But Reed well knew the power of symbolism. And what would become of the spirit of America, in these fragmented times, if the Statue of Liberty were lost? 

He didn't want to think about that. 

The disk of his own devising began taking hold of the Wizard's anti-grav disk's power, grasping it as if in an invisible hand. The Fantasticar shuddered under the weight. He turned up the power. "Sue," he said. "Can you..." 

"Say no more, Reed," said Sue Richards. She focused her energy-power and formed an invisible platform under the Statue. It was like a giant, unseen plank, with one end of it anchored on the base from which the Statue had been torn. The Fantasticar's strain eased a bit. Reed Richards sighed and set about the task at hand. 

Reed turned on the Fantasticar's afterburners. Slowly, delicately as its massive bulk would permit, the Statue of Liberty came with it, drawn from below by invisible force. He couldn't risk negating the Wizard's disk at this time, since Lady Liberty would most likely be torn into pieces or topple into the waters. But, if this worked... 

Well, it had to work. 

Idly, he took note of some TV news helicopters nearby that were filming the action from what he hoped was a safe distance. This'll make quite a story, friends, he thought, if we pull it off. His elongated hands deftly manipulated the controls of the craft and of his disk. 

Sue Richards concentrated hard, focusing her every energy on maintaining her platform of invisible force. The Statue began to slide along it, like a huge cargo being slid on a tilted plane off the back of a truck. She could feel, in a reduced way, the weight of its tonnage. Her brow began to spurt sweat. 

She rarely doubted Reed's judgment. She hoped, today, she wouldn't have cause to. 

Reed kept the Fantasticar pushing forward, thankful they hadn't been attacked yet. This had to be done quickly, precisely. That went without saying. And there would be only one chance to do it right. 

With the uplifted arm of the Statue on one side of the car, the man called Mr. Fantastic took the Statue ever forward, its base borne up by Sue's force field. He thought he felt it drop a tad, and looked back at Sue. Her face was red and strained, but she said two words to him: "Go on." 

He gunned the engines a bit more. For her sake, he had to do this even more quickly. 

There was a real danger of the Statue's head being torn from its shoulders. If that happened, everything would be lost. But Sue was overtaxed as it was, keeping the force-field plank in place. They were less than a half-mile away from the Statue's base on Bedloe's Island. Reed remembered how, seven years ago, a weird band of warriors had challenged Nick Fury and Captain America here, and how he and Ben had to drain the power of New York to enable a weapon to defeat the pair's enemies. That had caused the Big Blackout, unfortunately, and their part in it was immediately hushed up by the authorities. Reed had been grateful for that. 

"Reed..." gasped Sue, from behind. 

"Just a little longer, Sue," he said, tightly. "Please...don't falter. Not just yet." 

She said nothing. The engines of the Fantasticar were at their peak now. 

With a metallic creaking, the great creation followed the attraction-force of Reed Richards's disk. The waters, sixty feet and more below, waited to swallow it should the effort fail. 

Now, the base and the island were only 500 yards distant. Involuntarily, his muscles began to relax. 

He felt the craft and the Statue drop. 

It was halted before he had a chance to cry out. The Fantasticar and the Statue were stabilized above the waters, and, looking back and then down, he saw his wife, her face almost white with effort, and what seemed to be a circular hole in the waters below, around which they lapped and flowed. 

"I made it into a support beam," Sue Richards said, tersely. "Get the thing up there." 

"You've got it, honey," he replied. 

Reed Richards pulled back the control yoke of the Fantasticar and put it into a rough climb. The Statue was pulled off the top of Sue's invisible support pillar. He felt the sag of its weight, upped the power in his disk to try and compensate, and took the great creation the remaining distance between ocean and island. 

Johnny and Ben were there, the Torch flying near the Statue's torn base and the Thing standing beside it. Neither of them had been attacked, either. Thank heaven for what small favors were allowed. 

"Sue," he said, "I want you to form a socket for me to put this thing into. Form it around the base of the statue. Can you do that one thing for me?" 

"I'll try," she responded. 

He pulled the thing up, a good fifty feet over the base, and began to let it down. 

Reed could feel the abutment of Sue's force-field socket about the base. Sue gently manipulated it to guide the huge creation into place. The creaks of the strained metal were very audible. To lose the thing at this stage would be unthinkable. But not impossible. 

Down, ten feet at a time...then five...then less than that. It had to work. The base would be torn, and repairs would have to be made. But if the Statue could be put back intact, all that could be seen to later. 

It had to work. It had to. 

It... 

He felt the spring of settlement below him, as the energy-force contracted and expanded. 

The Statue was back on its base. 

Reed sighed, said, "Hold on, honey," and turned a dial which increased the power of his disk to full force. 

With a great pop of sound, the Wizard's disk was depowered, pulled from the Statue's head, and drawn upwards to mate with Reed's disk. The powers of both were united to hold the figure of Lady Liberty in place. 

Reed stretched his head down hundreds of feet to speak with Johnny and Ben, manipulating the controls of the Fantasticar by touch with his hands. 

"Ben, I'm going to have Sue lift the field on the left side," he said to the Thing. "I'll need you to hold the Statue in place. Johnny, I want you to weld it back onto the base as best you can. I know I don't have to tell you..." 

"Be careful," finished the Human Torch. "I know, Reed. Just give the word." 

"And incidentally, Stretch," said the Thing, "congrats." 

With the four of them working in concert, first one side, then the opposite, then another, and finally the last side of the Statue of Liberty was reunited with its base, thanks to the Torch's welding power, the Thing's supportive strength, the bulwark of Sue's force field, and the skill of Mr. Fantastic. 

Sue held it in place for a few more minutes, until she could be sure the Torch's weld was firm. Then, with a sigh of relief, she dissipated her field. The rubbery arm of Mr. Fantastic went about her, supporting her, embracing her. 

"You never fail us, honey," he said. 

"That's all right, Reed," she said, feeling the sweat stain the underarms of her blue uniform. "Just...what comes next?" 

Far below them, the Thing let go of the side of the Statue's base he was supporting and leaped to the pavement below, his powerful legs taking the impact without harm. The fiery form of the Torch was quickly beside him. "You okay, blue-eyes?" said Johnny Storm. 

"Been worse, squirt," opined Ben. "But that ain't the problem. We saved the Statue, but where in blue blazes're the guys what tore it off?" 

From a grating nearby, a stream of sand poured with amazing rapidity. Neither of them saw it quickly enough. It formed into a huge mallet, at least the size of a man and of much greater density, lifted itself, and smashed hard into the Thing, knocking him flat. 

The Torch, almost without thinking, shot a fireball at the sand-hammer. As he threw it, a bolt of blinding blue electricity contacted him, causing him to cry out in pain and fall. He landed hard on the concrete and turned it black with carbon. 

The hammer reformed itself into the Sandman, grinning down at a loggy Thing. Electro stepped from the shadows, and was quickly joined by the figures of the Wizard, the Trapster, and several others. 

"You asked a question, Thing," said the Wizard, smiling ruthlessly. "We're the answer." 

-M-   


PARKER 

Don't ask me why I had to go on patrol that day. I just did. Sure, the old Spider Sense had been on low boil most of the afternoon, but with the Statue of Liberty about to take a swim, why wouldn't it be? 

As soon as I got out of Stark Labs, I called up Gwen and told her I was going on the prowl. She begged me not to. I told her I'd be back as soon as I could and hung up. Then I changed, and started swinging. 

Usually, when I went looking for trouble, it found me. I figured at least Kraven would be on the prowl, after the little social meeting we'd had shortly before. With the Frightful Four sighting that morning, I kinda figured that hell was a-popping somewhere, and I'd probably wind up getting my webbed hands hot with it. 

I took it over the docks, figuring at least I could get a good look at what was going down with the Statue. By that time the FF had long since put it back in place, and I was glad. That was something even I couldn't manage, believe it. I clung to the side of a two-story building there, looking out to sea for a minute, glad things seemed to be working out the way they did. 

Then the Spider Sense spiked like it was hitting big on the Richter scale. I had time enough to leap. That saved me from getting gouged out like a big part of the side of the building when three metal pincers on the end of a flexible arm tore it away. 

I made a three-point landing on a nearby pier and did a 360. My head was tingling worse than the feeling I'd gotten when I saw Psycho for the first time, let me tell you. I could guess one of the faces I'd be seeing. I just didn't know about the guests he'd bring. 

From the metal arm I'd just seen, it wasn't a surprise to me I saw Doc Ock nearby. But some other guys were starting to surround me, and none of 'em had the looks of anybody that was in my fan club. 

One guy was walking in a big puff of dry-ice smoke, and the fishbowl thing on his head proved pretty definitely that he was Mysterio. 

There was a pair of flapping wings overhead. I'd heard them many times before. I looked up and knew already that the Vulture was coming in on a bombing run. 

Then there was a guy with a blue metal helmet that covered his head, a pair of blue chain-mail pants, a yellow chestplate, two steel boots with knife-edges up and down the sides, and I could have dealt with all that. Problem was, the guy had his trademarked circular blades whirring on top of his gloves, and they could cut metal into flinders without much problem. I'd never fought him, but I knew this jamoke was the Gladiator. 

On top of that came a fifth cat, in a bullfighter's getup with a mask, carrying a sword that crackled with electrical sparks. This guy was another stranger to me, but I'd seen pictures of him in the papers. I kept up with super-villains as a matter of survival, mine and other people's. No question that this was Daredevil's old problem, the Matador. 

About the only thing I could think of then, looking at the bunch of 'em, was one thought that truly seemed profound at the time: 

"Spidey—you're in trouble." 

-M- 

Gary Gilbert had kept up with the dealings on Bedloe's Island through the TV reports. His father had taken off to watch them beside him, at their office at Gilbert Industries. The senior Gilbert's response of relief was genuine. Gary knew his was an effective fake. 

"I'll be back in a bit, Dad," he'd told his father, implying that he was into a big business deal, and so he was. He had left in his fairly new XKE, determined to enjoy the pleasures of capitalism in its last few days. 

The car had taken him to a certain place where he passed through his own checkpoints without problem. He threw open the door into one last chamber. David Graine was there, waiting for him. 

"Well?" said Gilbert. 

Graine said, "AIM is ready. They want to see you this evening." 

Gary Gilbert smiled. "Right on schedule," he said. 

It was time to prepare the Fire. 

To be continued... 


	13. Part 13:  Fury At Wrigley Field

FIRE! 

Part 13 

by DarkMark 

The balloon went up at the University of California at Berkeley, at Kent State, at Empire State University, and at the Universities of Florida and Texas at Austin immediately. 

It wasn't that nobody had been expecting protest, or violence. That had been a staple of campuses since around 1966, sadly. 

But most people thought it had been winding down. After all, one generation of students had already graduated and were getting jobs, getting married, settling down. They had little time to protest. The War was apparently winding down, at least as far as American involvement went. People were listening less to the Jefferson Airplane and more to James Taylor. 

Plus, since the Kent State massacre, the Movement appeared to have drawn back. 

How little anyone knew. 

A team of revolutionaries under a black flag banner took over the administration building of Empire State University. It happened with more or less military precision. The guards were overwhelmed by twentysomething hippies who were carrying armament that even cops had never seen before. Seven hostages were taken and the word got out quickly. 

The police and the National Guard soon made the scene. The president of Empire State University, Albert E. Donahue, got a line hooked up to one of the interior phones and tried to negotiate. He asked the revos what they wanted. 

"We want to wait," the guy in charge said. Then he hung up, and ignored the frequent ringing of the telephone. 

The police decided they'd try to get in first. They shot out windows at the ground floor and started to lob in tear gas canisters. A few minutes of that, and either the punks would come out or the cops in gas masks would be better able to come in, without harm. 

Sunlight glinted off a weapon's barrel from an upper story window an instant before a red beam leaped from its muzzle. 

The beam touched a purple Volkswagen in the parking space around the building and blew it sky-high. Luckily, the fragments and burning gasoline didn't hit anybody, but several nearby cars were a loss. 

The squad leader of the special tactics squad raised his hand to halt his men. 

"We'd better think this one out," he said. 

The others were more than happy to do that. 

-M- 

Race riots were seemingly always in fashion. They weren't dependent upon the status of white students, and, even though the status of blacks in America had been advancing by a great degree during the last decade, old hates die hard. Moreover, it's easy enough to gather together some haters, if you look hard enough. 

Sometimes it isn't even that hard. 

The remnants of the Black Panthers, the Blackstone Rangers, the Diamond Heads, and several almost-forgotten black racist groups were suddenly on the move again. Most of the residents of the ghettos where they struck—Watts, Bed-Stuy, and other places—were moderates, and encouraged enough by the changes that had taken place since the Johnson Administration to hope for an even better day soon. 

The revolutionaries weren't waiting around any longer. 

Flames that were thought doused blazed anew. Buildings were torched in New York, Montgomery, Detroit, Los Angeles, and elsewhere. Unlike many earlier conflagrations, this one hadn't seemed to have had an immediate political trigger. Black residents were just about as confused as whites. But they were at considerably greater danger. The fires were taking their businesses, their homes, and, in a few cases, their lives. 

Almost as an afterthought, the tattered remnants of a white nationalist group, the Sons of the Serpent, reemerged and joined forces in a half-hearted alliance with what was left of the Ku Klux Klan, a group they usually despised as moronic, low-tech, and out of touch. They held rallies at a couple of the flashpoints, stood in costume, waved signs, endured thrown rocks, and threatened violence against any black (though "black" was not the term they used) who dared come out of the ghetto and face them. 

Prudently, they didn't go into the ghetto to face the blacks. 

More than a few of them were grabbed by police, but the Serpents had some weaponry left over from the last time they had arisen and been beaten down by the Avengers. A couple of enclaves in Detroit occupied buildings and fired some devastating warning shots that tore up property, but not people, thankfully. 

Nonetheless, the authorities decided to wait them out. They also hoped that the ubiquitous superhero community would come to their aid. 

But all the heroes appeared to be busy. 

-M- 

The Mandarin never received visitors unbidden at his castle. Even the troops of Mao Tse-Tung had learned the hard way never to try to breach his halls. So it was that, when he received a summons for a certain meeting, he agreed only to meet the other on the face of a nearby mountain. 

There, swept by wind and surrounded by snow, the Mandarin stood uncomplaining, the ten alien rings on his fingers glinting, almost giving off sparks. He had personally taken them from the depths of an alien starship years ago, and each of them had a different and deadly power. Almost as deadly were his hands, trained in a form of karate so deadly that they could actually penetrate metal. 

More than once, he had used this skill against Iron Man, his archenemy. But each time, he had been balked. 

Nonetheless, for his genius, his ruthlessness, and his power, the Mandarin was not a man to be trifled with. 

He stood in the red mask that covered the top of his head and circled his eyes, his green, loose-fitting uniform of pants and shirt, and a cloak which couldn't have served to protect him much from the cold. But he did not shiver. In fact, the first sign of reaction he showed was when he heard someone speak his name. 

The Mandarin whirled, his right hand fisted, five rings pointed at the direction of the sound. 

Before him stood another. He had not even perceived the man's presence until he spoke, and that was truly disturbing. 

The newcomer was Chinese, like himself, tall and half-armored in gleaming metal that covered his forearms, his legs, and the top of his head. He wore dark blue robes trimmed in gold, with the insignia of a three-clawed talon on his chest. He looked no less dangerous than the other, and the two of them stood immobile, taking the measure of each other. 

Finally, the Mandarin spoke. "And you would be the Yellow Claw," he said. 

"I have been called that," said the man in armor. 

After a pause, the Mandarin said, "I seek no alliances." 

"Nor do I offer any," replied the Claw. "I only wish to know where one stands in this situation." 

The Mandarin eased a bit, standing up from his half-crouch. "Then the Westerner contacted you as well. How did he find you?" 

"I know not. Probably the same way he found you." The Claw waited for the Mandarin to follow up the offered trail of conversation. When he did not, the Claw spoke again. "Would you join the fray?" 

"Would you?" 

The Claw looked away, contemplating the landscape below, much of it shrouded by mist. "There is little for oneself in it. I have no enemies amongst this generation of Westerners, save for James Woo, who is uncertain if I still live. There is the mystery of who dared malign me by making automatons of myself and my associates, and using them against SHIELD. But that does not directly affect me." 

"Wisely said," acknowledged the Mandarin. 

"However," the Claw continued, "one cannot say the same for one who has made many enemies among the West. Particularly one in armor." 

The Mandarin's face was stony, but his stance changed subtly enough for the Claw to know that he had scored a hit. "All of one's enemies are not within the West," he replied. 

"Even so," said the Claw, "would you let another claim the foe you target for yourself?" 

"My battles are my own, Claw. Unlike others, I do not offer myself the luxury of hiding for a decade or more, in fear my enemies would find me." 

This time, it was the Claw's stance that changed. The Mandarin could barely conceal his signs of pleasure. "A cobra may stay within its burrow until it is time to strike," he replied. 

"But the bold cobra confronts his attackers, and overcomes them." 

"When the time is right, my friend. When the time is right." 

Neither of them had much to say after that. The Claw began to step back, into the snow and mist, which had inexplicably become thicker behind him. The Mandarin knew well that he could dissipate that with the merest burst from one of his rings. But it would serve no purpose. 

He waited until he felt the Claw's presence no longer. 

Slowly, the Mandarin turned back towards his flying vehicle, hidden elsewhere on the trail. He would never have admitted it to anyone else, but the Claw had read him well. True, he had left Iron Man to many other foes in his absence, between rounds, as it were. But the thought of his greatest foe dying at another's hands...that would be an indignity not easily borne. 

No, the Mandarin would have to take himself to America once again, and join the fray at a time of his own choosing. 

Then, at his leisure, he could deal with the Yellow Claw. 

That was a prospect that gave him as much pleasure as contemplating the death of Iron Man. 

-M- 

The nine Avengers were finding the battle a bit more challenging, to say the least. 

They might have been well-matched against just the Masters of Evil. But the infusion of the Squadron Sinister into the mix, whose members had been specifically created by the Grandmaster to destroy them in a game with Kang, had tilted the mix arguably in favor of the villains. 

Quicksilver, for instance, had a running grudge match with Whirlwind, each of whom were certain was certain his mutant speed power was greater than the other's. But the Whizzer, the Squadron member whose speed approached Pietro's, was helping the deadly dervish double-team him. In fact, Pietro was being held from behind by the yellow-and-blue clad Whizzer while the Whirlwind bored in with his green metal helmet, spinning hard against Quicksilver's chest. The accelerated Avenger gritted his teeth in pain and felt in danger of his rib cage collapsing at any moment. 

Then Whirlwind gasped in pain, stiffened perceptibly even though he was spinning like a rotary drill, and fell back. Quicksilver saw the reason why. A green-sleeved, gold-gloved hand was protruding through his whirling body. 

The Vision was on the job. 

With Whirlwind taken care of, Pietro was able to free one arm from the Whizzer's grasp, grab him from behind by the head, and throw him over one shoulder. Before he could touch the ground, Quicksilver was on him with a nerve grip. The yellow-and-blue clad man struggled, his mouth open, not used to combating someone who could move at the same speed. In a few more seconds, he was out. 

Too hurt at present to talk, Quicksilver nodded a grudging thanks. The Vision's face was, as usual, impassive. They were teammates, allies. But, since Quicksilver had seen the evidence of his sister falling in love with an android, they were something less than friends. 

Thor, Sif, and the Scarlet Witch were doing battle with the Executioner and the Enchantress. It wasn't particularly easy, as the Executioner could hold his own with Thor in combat savvy, and almost in strength. The Scarlet Witch's hex power had increased since the last time she'd faced the Enchantress, but it still wasn't quite up to the Asgardian woman's power. However, Sif was there to wield sword against her foe, and Amora had to cast a spell that created a swordswoman of soil out of some choice infield land. The soil was congealed to a hardness sufficient to block and parry Sif's powerful swordthrusts, and poking the golem-woman through and through didn't hurt her at all. 

It did hurt the groundskeeper, looking on from afar, who knew he'd have a lot of reworking to do after the fight. 

The thunder god angrily beat back the Executioner's guard. Skurge fell back a few steps, grimacing beneath his helmet, but grudgingly admiring Thor's power. He saw Mjolnir coming for him, brought his own weapon-hand up, and knocked it aside with a blow of his axe that barely missed Thor's fingers. 

In his own right, Thor was respectful of the Executioner's own power, as much as he despised him. 

Then a powerful bare hand gripped Thor's shoulder from behind. And, despite his strength, that which could match the Hulk's at any day, the thunder god found himself turned around, away from the Executioner, and facing the one who grasped him. 

"Good afternoon," said Hyperion, and punched him in the face. 

The others were having a hellacious time with the remaining Masters of Evil. For one thing, the red-hued Klaw had created several beasts of solidified sound...a huge ape, an elephant, and a lion, all emblematic of his African sojourn...and had set them against the heroes. Iron Man had disrupted the noise-beasts somewhat with sonic bursts from a device he'd stashed in his belt. But Doctor Spectrum had pinned Iron Man down with a giant hand from his Power Prism, and the Melter was pointing his melting gun straight at the armored Avenger. 

A star-spangled shield came into line between him and Iron Man. Smiling, the Melter went ahead and triggered his ray. 

The beam ricocheted harmlessly off Cap's shield. Part of it was diffused. Another part of it reflected right back into the Melter's weapon, causing it to blow up in his hand. The Melter screamed, his hand injured superficially. He only managed one scream before Captain America vaulted before him, uncorked a mighty right, and sent him ass-over-teakettle down the sward, totally unconscious. 

But Cap himself was tackled from behind by a slim but no less strong figure in a bird's-head mask and a light blue-and-black costume. "Hello again," said Nighthawk, as he bore him to the grass below. 

As the two of them began to trade mighty blows, Hawkeye and the Pyms tried to deal with the Radioactive Man. Outside of the fact that his body was as deadly as unshielded U-235, they didn't expect that much trouble. For one thing, the Chinese villain was never known as much of a fighter. For another, either they or Thor had beaten him every time he'd shown his green-glowing face. 

But Hawkeye had known of the baddies' identity beforehand, and he'd come prepared for the roentgen-radiating rogue. Smiling a bit acidly, he fitted an arrow with a bulbous plastic head to his bow. The Wasp, flying by his ear, murmured, "Make it good, Clint. This guy's deadlier than a cobra, just remember." 

"Don't worry, Waspie," he confirmed. "Nobody ever taught me how to miss." 

The Radioactive Man looked in Hawkeye's direction and pointed his hand, sending off a burst of blinding power that seared the grass and ground beneath it. No matter what, he was no man to take lightly. Clint Barton lurched away, rolled, and still managed to loose the arrow on the fly. 

He was right: nobody ever taught him how to miss. 

The arrowhead struck the Chinese villain full in the chest and erupted, unleashing a shower of grey, lead-bearing paint. The Radioactive Man cursed in his native tongue, some of which got a few drops of paint on it. A second and a third arrow splatted onto his chest and forehead, dousing him with more paint. He could probably burn his way out, given time, but the threesome didn't intend to give him any of that. 

From two opposing entryways into the field, an army of insects scurried. They seemed as well-disciplined and swift as columns of army ants, though these were different in nature. Those who saw them, spectators and combatants alike, gaped in surprise and even shock. The Avengers, though, knew it was just a sample of what Hank Pym's cybernetic helmet could do. 

Cockroaches. 

The persistent little bugs had been summoned by Ant-Man. They were fully capable of surviving great amounts of radiation, which was just why he had called on them. Within minutes, the brown twin-columned army had taken the field, wound its way around the other combatants, and swarmed its way towards the green-hued, paint-covered menace. 

"No!" cried Radioactive Man, his paint-rimmed eyes afire with revulsion. The things were coming for him. 

"Oh, yes," chirped the Wasp, as she bowled the bad guy over with a powerful blast of her Wasp's Sting. She struck him again and again, stunning him and sending him to the grass, rolling him over on his front. Several more arrows from Hawkeye struck him, coating his back with the same lead paint. 

Chen Lu, the Radioactive Man, pushed himself up a bit from the playing field and saw the bugs only inches away. Despite the fact that he had the power to sear entire sections of the bleachers into ruin, he shrieked in distaste and horror. 

Then the cockroaches were on him. 

The Master of Evil was covered in a mound of the tiny beasties, a man-sized glob of writhing brown bodies. He howled imprecations, tried to fire bursts from his fingernails, made the paint steam and crack, rose to his feet, hardly distinguishable among the mass of tiny warriors who kept coming and coming and coming. 

"Man," said Hawkeye. "That is some kind of job for Orkin." 

"Shut up, Clint," advised the Wasp. 

Chen Lu raised both hands to his face and wiped the cockroaches away, but others took their place. He dropped to the ground and rolled, but the insects weren't balked. Nothing would deter the insect soldiers from their mission. 

The Radioactive Man was being beaten by a bunch of bugs. 

He lurched to his feet again. Before he could put hands to his face, the tiny army seemed to withdraw from it. The villain blinked, able to see what was before him for the first time in several seconds. 

A normal-sized Ant-Man was standing there with thin, protective gloves on his hands. 

"Say goodnight, pal," said Hank Pym, and uncorked a haymaker that lifted the Radioactive Man off his feet and put him on his back. 

Hawkeye came over and high-fived Ant-Man, grinning. Henry Pym returned the smile. The two of them and the Wasp had been friends almost since Hank returned to the team as Goliath, deepened their comradeship when the trio of them had become the core of the Avengers for some years, and became even more bonded when Clint had abandoned his Hawkeye persona for a time to become the second Goliath, after Hank had reverted to his Yellowjacket identity. It was complicated, even for the other Avengers, but change in their team was always a constant. 

The Wasp, through a mental effort, quickly grew from insect-sized to woman-sized in seconds. The cockroach army was withdrawing from the Radioactive Man's unconscious body, forming a ring around it and standing at attention. "Nice work for the military," cracked Jan Pym. "So what do we do next?" 

Hawkeye turned his head to take in the battle scene around and behind them, and then pointed in one direction. "I say we help out Cap. The others are kind of over our power line." 

Janet Pym smiled, knowingly. When Hawkeye had entered the team as part of the second group of Avengers, he had bristled at Captain America's authority and rode the senior Avenger as much as he could get away with. That had changed over the years, and Clint had become Cap's biggest booster. She suspected he saw Cap as the father he never had...or had always wanted. 

"Good idea," she said. "Saddle up, Hank." 

The married hero and heroine quickly shrank to insect size again, Jan sprouting wings from her back, Hank summoning a winged ant to ride. They were almost impossible to see, for folks who hadn't worked with them. But Hawkeye had so much practice in their company that he thought he could notice them in a crowd at Grand Central Station. 

"Let's go do some Assembling," said Hawkeye, dragging a stun arrow from his quiver on the run. "Or disassembling. Whatever." 

It turned out to be a little needless. Nighthawk was tough, certainly, enhanced to perfection by the powers of the Grandmaster. But Captain America had seen action that nobody this side of Thor could equal, and no normal-strength Avenger would dare have challenged him to a fight that wasn't just sparring. Without letup, Cap had judo-tossed, karate-kicked, elbowed, and punched his opponent into a slightly pulverized state. As the trio of Avengers came near, he drew a bead on the loggy Nighthawk's chin, unleashed an uppercut, raised him several inches off the field, and saw him fall like any number of foes before him. 

Despite his ethics, Cap had to admit to himself that it always felt good when he did that. 

He turned, adjusting his shield, and grinned at the Pyms and Hawkeye. "How'd yours go?" 

"Good, Cap," said Hawkeye. "You sure know how to make a guy feel needed." 

He clapped Clint on the shoulder. "Don't worry about that. I'd rather have backup and not need it than need it and not have it. I think Iron Man could use our help." 

It had seemed like that for awhile, with Spectrum's power beam holding Iron Man to the ground. But the Armored Avenger had used his repulsors to blast a hole in the soil beneath him, tunneling underground faster than the prism's power could reach him. He came up in a different spot and blasted away at Dr. Spectrum with both hands, knocking him out of the sky with the power of his repulsor rays. Then, jets activated, he soared from the Earth's surface and swooped towards his foe, red-gloved finger jabbing for a control on the ring of his chest emblem. 

The Vario-Beam sent off a ray of ultraviolet light, bathing the Squadron member in a color above his gem's range. This was the way he had defeated Dr. Spectrum in their initial encounter, and he hoped it would do the trick again. 

For a second, the multicolored villain seemed to stagger beneath the output. Then he rose to his feet, incredibly, and held his gem towards Iron Man's flying figure. 

"The Enchantress helped me out with my little weakness," he explained. 

[And now,] sent the sentient, telepathic prism, [let us find out about yours.] 

A blast of purple power struck Iron Man like a sledgehammer. Both of his legs flew up as his upper body fell backward. The force of his boot-jets propelled him downward, and, before Tony Stark could shut them off, they'd half-buried him in the field. 

The Vision and Quicksilver suddenly made the scene, the meteoric mutant dealing out blow after super-speed blow to Spectrum, staggering him. But the gem, acting apparently on its own initiative, formed a giant hand that grasped Pietro and held him helpless above the ground. The Vision decreased his bodily density, shoved an arm through Spectrum's body, and began to solidify. He wouldn't get very much above gaseous state, but the disruptive force of his matter changing state within Spectrum's corpus would undoubtedly discombobulate the villain. 

Unfortunately, the Vision was struck by a flow of energy that the gem maintained within Dr. Spectrum's body in case of just such an attack. He opened his dark mouth in shock and fell back, his circuits almost overloading with a semblance of pain. 

Spectrum held his gem over the Vision's supine body, intending to blast it to smithereens. But before he could manage that, the edge of a disc-shaped, red-and-white striped shield with a star in the middle slammed into his neck and knocked him backward. It rebounded towards Captain America, who caught it as easily as if it had been a baseball. 

Iron Man had recovered and had joined the advancing Cap, Hawkeye, Wasp, and Ant-Man, converging on the fallen Spectrum. The Squadron Sinister member had plenty of power, all right, but Stark figured that the team could take him. They'd have to. Thor, Sif, and Wanda still needed a hand against Hyperion, the Enchantress, and the Executioner. 

Spectrum didn't get up from the ground. Instead, he raised the arm holding his gem, and a beam from it went not towards the Avengers, but to a spot several yards behind them. 

A space-warp formed in the air. The Avengers team slowed for an instant to see what, or who, was to emerge. They didn't have to wait long. The persons that emerged were well-known to them. 

The Titanium Man. The third Crimson Dynamo. Batroc the Leaper. The Porcupine. The Unicorn. The Eel. The Tumbler. The Scarecrow. 

They were all piling out of the hole in the air, and they were all advancing on the Avengers. 

"And there's more where they came from," Dr. Spectrum assured them. 

-M- 

Nobody from the outside would have taken the place for an AIM installation, and that was the whole point of it. Inside, the men in the yellow uniforms and the hatbox-shaped mask-helmets were conferring with Gary Gilbert and a couple of his chosen lieutenants. 

Gilbert had just handed over a suitcase of cash. "Of course, there's more besides that." 

"Of course," said the AIM representative, opening it briefly, then shutting it. The "more" would be stocks and bonds, precious gems, even gold deposited to secret AIM accounts. But all of the depositing would be held up until the goods were delivered, and Gilbert was safe. 

Even with AIM, in business dealings, you had to watch your back. 

"Are you certain you still want this, Mr. Gilbert?" said the AIM man. "Remember, once the purchase is made, there's no returning the goods." 

"Get on with it," said Gilbert, a sword-edge of irritation in his voice. 

The masked man led the two of them to another checkpoint, one with a door that it would have taken more than a Howitzer blast to breach. He pressed his gloved hand to a plate beside the door, and a voice from a hidden speaker said, "Identify yourself." 

"Agent 376," said the man, knowing his voice prints would match what they had on file. "With visitors." 

"Password," said the voice. 

Gary Gilbert stepped up. 

"Fire," he said. 

To be continued...   
  



	14. Part 14:  Warfronts

FIRE! 

Part 14 

by DarkMark 

The continent of Atlantis may have been an island which lay before the Great Flood. Now, it was a moveable feast of people who breathed water, endured sub-sea pressure, temperatures, and light without complaining, and very often made war on raiders. Within Prince Namor's memory, the Atlantean people had moved many, many times. 

Luckily there was a lot of the ancient continent on which to build, and not that many Atlanteans. Their numbers were paltry compared to that of the surface people, a fact which never failed to grate on Namor. 

Superior Atlantean technology and the strength of the Sub-Mariner himself had enabled them to resist encroachment from the air-breathing race, for the most part. But all of them knew the history. When Atlantis had been situated beneath the North Pole, in the 1920's, their world had been rocked by a broken iceberg, dynamited by a surface vessel. This ship was commanded by one Leonard McKenzie, and the Atlantean Princess Fen was sent to investigate, armed with a potion that enabled her to breathe air for a time. 

Princess Fen and Leonard McKenzie met, fell in love, and were wed. 

But they were separated forever when an Atlantean commando team stormed the ship, wounded McKenzie, and brought Princess Fen back with them below the surface. She carried inside of her two things: a broken heart, and a child by Leonard McKenzie. 

On February 22, 1922, Prince Namor I of Atlantis was born. 

More than a hybrid, more than a mutant, Namor had the light skin of his father, the roughly triangular-shaped head, arched eyebrows, and pointed ears of an Atlantean, and more besides. Much more. He had tiny wings on his ankles which enabled him to fly. He had the strength of a dozen whales. He was naturally amphibious, able to take in oxygen from water through gills beneath his jaw and from air through his surfaceman's lungs. 

He was as arrogant as he was powerful, right from the start. 

When he was 17 years old, he was sent against the surface world, in vengeance, and went against the greatest city of their greatest nation: New York, in America. 

It was the dawn of a new heroic age, though none knew it as of yet. The last men who had worn masks had taken them off forever after the Great War. Doc Savage and his men still operated, but they were only human, for all their strength. The Sub-Mariner rampaged through New York City, smashing, crushing, tearing down, destroying, and none seemed able to stop him. 

None, that is, save for the first Human Torch. 

The Torch, a blazing android, had begun his career on the same month that Namor struck New York, and was sent against his natural antagonist. The two fought to an incredible standstill, then decided to call it a draw. Prince Namor returned to Atlantis to lick his wounds for a bit. He had run afoul of the Nazi juggernaut during his sojourn on the surface, and neither he nor they would forget that. 

In 1941, Hitler's U-boats attacked Atlantis, wreaked havoc, and caused Emperor Tha-Korr, Namor's grandfather, to become comatose when struck by a falling wall. The Sub-Mariner vowed vengeance specifically against the Axis, and put Atlantis's legions to work in combat with the Nazis. He won out there and made a grudging partnership with the Allied forces, even fighting side-by-side with the Human Torch. 

Later that year, after the Pearl Harbor incident, the Sub-Mariner joined with the Torch, the Torch's boy partner Toro, and two new heroes named Captain America and Bucky in a confederation of heroes known as the Invaders. Winston Churchill had named them after he had been saved by them from a Nazi super-villain named Master Man. In their own way, they helped win the war. 

Namor stayed in the surface world for four years afterward. He had found a woman he loved, named Betty Dean. But it just wasn't enough to keep him there, or his cousin Namora, who had joined him in crime-fighting. In 1949, he went back to the sea. 

Four years later, Betty Dean asked for his help on a case, and he returned for awhile. He stayed until 1955. But he was still at odds with himself as to whether he should save the human race or conquer it. It was better, he decided, he remain with his own kind. So he returned to Atlantis, and bid Betty farewell. He would not choose his father's path for a mate. His distant cousin Dorma was looking much better. 

Then, not long afterward, came an incident he was unable to remember until 1967. A man called Destiny, a foe of his father's and now of his, wielded a strange and deadly mystical helmet with incredible powers. As a test, Destiny had destroyed Atlantis. Namor's mother had perished in that disaster. The Sub-Mariner himself had gone against Destiny, but was made amnesiac by the helmet's power. Moreover, since Destiny wished to go into hibernation till his powers matured, he implanted a false memory within Namor's brain: that Atlantis had been destroyed by the nuclear tests of the surface men. 

Namor wound up in the Bowery, clad in castoff clothes. For some years, he drifted, unknowing his identity, his hair and beard long and uncut. No one on the surface had heard from the Sub-Mariner since 1955. His absence was not noteworthy. 

Then came the day in 1962 when a teenager on the run found himself in the same flophouse as the one they called the Old Man. Needled by his fellow transients, the Old Man had taken out three of them with as many blows. The teenager defended him against his attackers. Then, seeing something familiar about him, the youth set his finger aflame...an act that made the Old Man stare in silent wonder, as if he had seen this thing before...and carefully shaved the Old Man's beard and cut his hair. 

Johnny Storm had read comic books when he was a kid. Many had been published with the consent (or without it) of the heroes upon which they were based. One of them had been Timely's SUB-MARINER COMICS. He recognized the man who sat before him. 

He flamed on, carried the Old Man with him, and dumped him into the bay. 

The shock of the ocean water revived Namor's memories (or most of them, anyway), and, thinking that an atomic test was responsible for Atlantis's destruction, he vowed renewed vengeance against the surface men. It turned out that this Human Torch was not related to the original, not even the son of Toro, which he had suspected at first. Namor brought a brobdinagian threat against the people of New York in the form of Giganto, a huge, whale-like, amphibian monster. 

That began the Sub-Mariner's running battle with the Fantastic Four. 

They were the first heroes of this new age, the new Torch, the Thing, Mr. Fantastic, and a lovely woman named the Invisible Girl. They were powerful, dedicated, and resourceful. Despite his own considerable might, they checkmated him at every turn. 

More than that: Namor developed feelings for the woman called Susan Storm from the moment he set eyes on her. 

Thus, the conflict between the Sub-Mariner and the Fantastic Four developed a new edge: the rivalry between Reed Richards and Namor for Sue's heart. Even she did not seem to know whom she loved the more. So it went. 

In time, Namor discovered the place where his fellow Atlanteans had gone and rebuilt their city. They welcomed him home, rethroned him, and promised (even Krang, the warlord, who proved to be a supreme traitor) their unquestioning loyalty. Also, though Namora was long gone, lost as Sub-Mariner himself had been, there was a woman whom he had not seen in as many years: Lady Dorma. 

Dorma, a very distant cousin of his and thus in the same level of Atlantean society, had been a partner of his for a time in the 1940's and had now grown into a most lovely woman. She made no bones of the fact that she was in love with Namor now, and he chose to acknowledge her love, despite what he still felt for Sue Storm. This did not sit well with Krang, to whom she had been pledged, and whose engagement to whom was now broken off. 

Immediately Namor had staged a full-scale Atlantean invasion of New York City, taking the metropolis and holding it for a week. It took that long for Reed Richards to devise a weapon that evaporated the water in his men's helmets and forced them back to the sea. The Sub-Mariner himself had struck the Fantastic Four in vengeance, but chose to stop the conflict in order to save the life of the Invisible Girl, who almost drowned. Angered by the fact that Namor had betrayed them to save a "surface girl", Dorma led the other Atlanteans in a desertion. When Namor returned to Atlantis, he found a ghost city. 

A small force of men remained with him, and Namor continued his battles with the Fantastic Four. He also came into conflict with new bands of heroes, like the Avengers and the X-Men, allying himself briefly with persons such as Dr. Doom, the Hulk, or Magneto. In one such incident, he found himself opposing his old partner from the Invaders, Captain America, revived into the new age as was Namor himself. 

In the last battle Namor had with the Fantastic Four, Sue Storm declared that her heart belonged to Reed Richards, and she was married to him not long thereafter. As if in recompense, Sub-Mariner found his people again, returned them to Atlantis, and resumed his reign over them. He also accepted the love of Lady Dorma, who proved a more suitable potential mate than Susan Storm ever could have been. 

But he was tricked by Krang into conflict with the surface world again, during which he battled a valiant, non-powered human called Daredevil. He returned to Atlantis when he learned that Krang had usurped power in his absence. Sub-Mariner was thrown into chains, liberated with the help of Dorma, and went on a long quest to reclaim the legendary trident of Neptune, which would prove his worthiness to resume kingship of Atlantis. Eventually, this proved successful. Krang was exiled, but would return time and again to beset Namor. 

Years later, the Sub-Mariner once again encountered Destiny. He learned of the true nature of Atlantis's destruction in 1957, and, knowing the truth now, decided that the surface men were not at fault for that crime and thus war with them was not desirable. Nonetheless, the mighty helmet of Destiny made him a formidable foe. Despite it all, he fought the villain, and the latter perished in a leap which turned out to be suicidal. 

The helmet turned out to be a much more evil thing, a Serpent Crown empowered by the evil Set. This led Namor into another quest, in which he met the Lemurians, another undersea tribe branched off from the Atlanteans, and the evil crown-wielder, Naga. Naga was finally destroyed, and the Sub-Mariner once again returned to his people, and to Dorma. 

Namor had encountered new foes...his relative Byrrah, Dr. Dorcas, Tiger Shark, Orca, the supremely evil Llyra, and others. He also made new allies, including the Inhuman Triton, the surface-man turned underwater hero known as Sting-Ray, and the Hulk and Silver Surfer, who joined him in a temporary coalition that brought him into battle against the Avengers. 

But he admitted that Atlantis needed a new heir to the throne, even though his lifespan was much greater than a surface man's. And he furthermore admitted his love for Dorma. 

On the day of Namor's wedding to Dorma, she was almost killed by Llyra. Almost. In turn, Sub-Mariner almost killed Llyra. She only saved her own life by telling him she knew the whereabouts of Namora's daughter Namorita, and would take him to her if she were spared. This almost led to the deaths of Namor and Namorita herself at the hands of Byrrah, but Namor prevailed. Byrrah was sent into exile and Llyra was imprisoned in Atlantis. 

Namorita, an amphibian like her cousin, and a beauty, suspected that Llyra had been behind her mother's premature death. But there was no proof. Llyra would have been careful about that. At any rate, she was overjoyed to learn that she still had a family, and became a member of the court of Prince Namor of Atlantis. 

At about the same time, the Sub-Mariner was united with an old ally and a new one in a loose team called the Defenders. The powerful mystic Dr. Strange had brought him and the Hulk together to defeat the machinations of Yandroth, a mage and scientist, and thus save the world. Even though the three of them seemed to have little in common, they discovered that they worked well (albeit sometimes grudgingly) together, and formed a secret confederation. Not long after that, the Silver Surfer was added to the mix. They seemed to get together once a month, whenever Strange thought a new threat was brewing. 

But the most important addition to Namor's life had come since then. Dorma had given birth to a baby boy, Prince Namor II, whom the Sub-Mariner himself called Leonard Tha-Korr, after his father and grandfather. Despite his duties, Namor tried to be a dutiful father. He also assumed the title of King Namor, now that he had an heir. 

Now it was that he sat upon his throne in Atlantis, his wife Dorma seated beside him with his son held in her grasp, in swaddling clothes, with Namorita sitting at the foot of his throne, lovely in a green bathing suit. The vizier of the realm, the loyal Vashti, was reading from a scroll. "Kelp production is up 15 percent this season," he intoned. "Fish breederies report success as well, particularly in new hybrid strains you commissioned. Now, as to the monuments: the accountants estimate you shall need an eight per cent raise of taxes to complete the work as scheduled." 

"Lower the taxes," said Namor. 

Vashti looked up and blinked. "Milord?" 

"Lower the taxes, Vashti. Five per cent." 

"But, my prince...I mean, my king..." 

Namor looked straight at his old friend, not with unkindness, but with authority. Dorma shifted her baby to her other arm. Namorita looked up at her cousin, but held her tongue. 

"Vashti. The feeding of my people and their continued prosperity mean much more to me than commemorating old victories. We may see to that later, if at all. The decision is made. Have you more?" 

The old man in the purple robe rolled up his scroll. "Nothing which requires your attention, my king." 

Namor lifted his hand. "You may go, faithful one." Vashti left, backing out of the throne room. 

After he was gone, Namorita finally spoke. "Cousin king, you weren't being mean to the old guy, were you?" 

Dorma noted Leonard's release of fluid into the environiment and knew he'd have to be changed. "Nita, my husband was only acting as kings do. Vashti was one of the few who stood beside us at the time of the Quest. But for him, neither the king nor myself would be alive today." 

Clad in a robe and his swim trunks, encrowned and holding Neptune's trident, Namor turned to his teenaged cousin. "And for your part, you shall refrain from informal speech with any save that of myself and my inmost court. You are a princess of Atlantis, Nita. Speak the part." 

"Not fair," simpered Namorita, standing up and putting her hands on her hips. "Mom didn't always talk that way, and she told me that you didn't, either. She said you said stuff like 'Great garp!' and 'Chuckling clams!' And..." 

"And if I hear any more back talk from you I shall certainly give Dorma the trident and put you over my knee. Understood?" 

Nita sighed and kicked idly at the base of the throne with her bare foot. "I get it." 

"Understood?" 

"It is understood, my king." 

"Better." Namor relaxed a bit. "Dorma, will you give the boy to a handmaid for a change?" 

She grinned wryly. "You smelled it as well, husband?" 

"My son's strength is not confined to his limbs." 

Dorma left the chamber and returned shortly thereafter without her child. Namor was still speaking to the girl. "Since my youth, scarcely older than yourself, I have been engaged in war," he said. "With the surface world in general, or with Nazis, or criminals, or Communists, or their super-powered champions. What has it profited us? The Realm Eternal has been stricken time and again, its people forced to flee. I have been separated from them constantly. This is not as things should be. A ruler should be with his ruled, or he should not rule at all." 

"So you've told me, cousin," said Nita, sitting cross-legged on the floor before him. "But it isn't like you haven't been needed." 

"Just so," agreed Namor, as Dorma took the seat beside him. "But my love of adventure has too often obstructed my need to protect the realm. Not for nothing have my people deserted me in the past. Now, I must prove myself worthy of their trust. I have opened negotiations with the surface world through their United Nations. They will begin session soon to consider Atlantis for membership." 

Namorita considered it. "But, cousin king, that'll commit you to stuff like cooperating with 'em. Maybe even sending in troops in police actions, 'n' all of that. You'll have to pay dues, and..." 

"So it shall be," answered Namor. "No nation, not even one such as hours, may consider itself aloof from all other peoples. We fought too long against the men of the surface, to little profit. But if the Atlantean armies stood beside them in time of need, then they might remember our common cause against such as Hitler. Also might they remember Atlantis, in its own time of jeopardy. The responsibilities are onerous, to be sure, Nita. But so shall be the benefits. If Namor must cease being warrior, and become king in truth, so be it." 

Nita half-smiled. "I don't think you'll keep that resolution entirely, cousin. You like adventure too much." 

He favored her with a half-smile of his own. "Perhaps. But my personal pleasures, in turn, must be balanced by what I have to do. I am, foremost of all, an Atlantean. My people are my responsibility." 

She said nothing, which was just as well. But she wondered if the man called Dr. Strange would summon her cousin to another battle soon with himself, the Hulk, and the Silver Surfer in company. Or if some of the Realm's enemies, such as Attuma, would attack anew. 

If they did, she hoped she might be fighting at his side. 

Even if Namor said the Defenders didn't exist, she figured they could use a woman in their ranks. 

-M-   


Klaw and Dr. Spectrum were forming a ring of force, based in solidified sound and light, around the baseball field to keep the Avengers and the super-villains within it. It was domed, which disappointed the heck out of the newsmen in the helicopters filming the battle. Alternating bands of red and bright yellow blocked their view. 

Thankfully, just about all of the spectators in the stands had been freed from the Enchantress's spell and evacuated by now, the mayor going with them. Daley was with the police now, outside the stadium, waiting alongside them for the outcome. 

The odds had changed. It was now Captain America, Iron Man, Thor, Sif, Ant-Man, the Wasp, Hawkeye, Quicksilver, the Scarlet Witch, and the Vision against Dr. Spectrum, Hyperion, Nighthawk, Whizzer, Klaw, Whirlwind, Melter, Executioner, Enchantress, Radioactive Man, Titanium Man, Unicorn, Crimson Dynamo, Batroc, Porcupine, Eel, Tumbler, and Scarecrow. The ones who had been downed by the heroes were being revived by their fellows. 

Earth's Mightiest Heroes were getting rapidly outnumbered. 

Thor, showing the bruises of his battle, slammed a powerful hammer-blow into Hyperion and knocked him to the ground. But it didn't kayo him, and the Executioner attacked the Avenger from behind, smashing a blow to the thunder god's helmet with his mighty axe. Even Thor had to go to one knee with the pain, though he quickly stood up and slammed a mighty punch into the Executioner's jaw, flooring him. 

Before he could turn, Thor felt a searing pain in his back, like the fires of Surtur assaulting him. This, he knew, was no mortal-wielded fire. Nor did it burn with an Earthly flame. He wheeled, in pain, to see the Enchantress standing nearby, her hands glowing, her mouth smiling wickedly. 

"Perhaps this is the day the prophecies are disproved," mused Amora. "Perhaps, instead of falling at Ragnarok, Thor shall fall on Earth." 

"Never!" shouted Sif, leaping between the two of them, and smashing the Enchantress a powerful blow with the flat of her blade. It knocked the sorceress flat on her back, dazed her, but didn't render her unconscious. Thor tried to sweep his beloved out of harm's way, but Hyperion rocketed forward and grabbed him by the throat. 

The pressure he was exerting was almost as great as the Hulk could manage. 

Nonetheless, Thor managed to stamp his hammer several times on the ground, and, apparently unbidden, a fleecy white cloud in the sky sent down a thunderbolt with pinpoint accuracy. It struck Hyperion in the back, scorching his costume, making his hair stand on end, causing his eyes to bug from their sockets, and weakening his grip on the god of thunder somewhat. 

Thor's mighty left hand came up in a palm strike to the chin that tumbled Hyperion off of him. 

Iron Man was at the center of a grouping of the other heroes, who were facing Titanium Man and his allies. The armored Avenger, standing back-to-back with Cap, readied his repulsors and turned up the gain on his voice amplifier a bit. He spoke to the green-armored Russian. 

"Never expected to see you boys in the company of capitalists," he remarked. "Your old bosses put you out to pasture, Bullski?" 

The green gloves of the giant Russian began to smoulder. "Yours will soon put you in the grave, American. Our last encounter begins now." 

"Save some for me, tovarisch," remarked the Unicorn. He unleashed a power blast from his horn that scattered the Avengers, save for Iron Man, who jetted up and jackknifed just below the dome. 

The Porcupine had his quill-shooters in action, blasting fire and darts at the heroes. Hawkeye flopped to the ground, nocked an arrow from his prone position, fired. It struck the villain's thorny costume and exploded. It put him on his back, but didn't really hurt him. He rose, despite the oncoming of his old foes Ant-Man and the Wasp. 

Batroc and the Tumbler were both making for Captain America, leaping, somersaulting, ready for a feet-first assault. Cap was more than ready for them. He did an acrobatic maneuver himself, and landed both red-booted feet in their faces, one heel apiece. 

The Eel tried to make an electrical attack, but the Scarlet Witch gestured with both her hands together. He shouted as his costume short-circuited on the spot. 

Still, the picture was looking nasty. The Vision, still loggy from Dr. Spectrum's burst, was heading forward to take out as many bad guys as he could, but the odds were still slightly with the villains. 

Then a crunching noise was heard, and a shower of red sound-shards fell inward towards the baseball field before dissipating with a tinkle. 

"What in the devil..." Klaw began to say, raising his metal sound-claw to the dome, which was now breached. 

A sextet of heroes swiftly dropped through the hole, four of them hitting the ground with their feet without appreciable damage, the sixth riding piggy-back on the fifth's shoulders. Their faces were known to the Avengers and to the Enchantress and Executioner. 

Balder, Hogun, Fandral, Hildegarde, Volstagg, and the Black Panther, all but the last of them exiled gods of Asgard. 

Backup had arrived. 

Thor smiled and raised Mjolnir in greeting. "All hail, sister and brethren," he boomed. "Together, we stand!" 

The Enchantress looked at the situation and made a swift decision. 

With a gesture of power that drained her somewhat, she caused another warp to appear in the air. "Retreat," she shouted, clearly enough to be heard. 

The Titanium Man seemed to stiffen in his tracks. "Not now," he roared. "The battle..." 

"The battle will continue elsewhen, mortal fool," snapped the Executioner. "For now, through the warp. Amora, Hyperion and I will cover the retreat." 

The Vision tried to get to the Executioner fast enough to pull his solidifying-within trick, but the Enchantress struck him down with a bolt. Even Quicksilver was blocked by the Whizzer and Whirlwind. The villains, for their part, seemed well-disciplined. Before much order could be made on the part of the heroes, their opponents had escaped (some running, some flying, some being carried) through the warp. It closed before Thor's thrown hammer could penetrate it. 

With Klaw's and Spectrum's absence, the great dome of light and sound began to break up. 

"Well," said Hawkeye, "they're gone." 

The Scarlet Witch shook her head. "As usual, your powers of observation are meticulous, Clint." 

"That's enough, Wanda," said Captain America, adjusting his shield on his arm. "Count yourself lucky that we came out of this one with as little damage as we did. There've been worse battles." 

Fandral made several passes through the air with his sword. "Indeed, Captain," he said, "'tis a pity that, for us, there was no battle at all." 

"Thou wilt get thy wish ere long, methinks," said Thor. "For the nonce, welcome to thee all, and especially to you, brave Balder." He smiled, clapping his oldest friend on the shoulder. Balder lay an affectionate hand on Thor's arm. 

"'Tis well met, son of Odin," he said. "Thy request that we act as reserve was wise indeed." 

"Wiser still was the decision of the enemy not to fight us," said Hogun, in a gutteral tone. "Less would their numbers be afterwards than before. I would see to that." 

"Peace be, Hogun," warned Hildegarde the Valkyrie. "On Midgard, we battle to capture, not to kill. Remember that." 

Volstagg, having released the Black Panther from his mountainous shoulders, bawled, "Remember best that, having seen the valorous Volstagg's entrance, the foe turned tail and fled, as the craven cowards they are! Forsooth, even the Executioner dared not match sinew and blade with me!" 

"Maybe he thought he'd have a hard time finding the sinew," remarked Hawkeye, sotto voce. 

"Clint," warned the Wasp. 

The Black Panther was already shaking hands with Captain America. "Sorry I couldn't be here quicker, old friend," he said. "It's been awhile, hasn't it?" 

"Always too long, T'Challa," said Cap. "Always too long." He had sponsored the Panther as his replacement in the Avengers some years back when he'd briefly quit the team, after the two of them had shared a battle against a false Zemo. 

Quickly, the Avengers updated the Asgardian squad on the events of the battle. Then, with the news choppers beginning to reappear, the heroes began to make an assessment. "Well, we've found out where at least some of the Riker's Island boys went," Ant-Man observed. "But not all of them." 

"That's not counting guys like the Unicorn and Ti Man," Iron Man put in. "They weren't escapees. Somebody's made this bunch into a regular army." 

Captain America said, "But only one division of it. There were a lot more escapees than we saw here today. Question: where are the rest of them? And who masterminded this thing?" 

Hawkeye shrugged. "You expecting an answer, Cap?" 

"I'm expecting us to find an answer, Hawk," replied Cap. "I'm expecting us to find it darned soon. Or it'll find us." 

-M- 

The problem in Texas was announced quite early in the afternoon. When all the secretaries and businessmen had gone to lunch and there was only a smaller force of people in the McCade building, one of the larger and newer glass-and-steel structures of the Metroplex, everyone found out about it in short order. 

The building began to come apart. 

It started with the top floor. Girders began to pull themselves out of alignment with a shriek. The shriek was, of course, echoed by humans working on that floor. Tinted plate glass windows that made up the outer walls began to shatter. The ferroconcrete flooring beneath the carpets began to crack and crumble. 

A salesman who had been leaning against one of the windows fell backwards, screaming. 

He was buoyed up after falling about ten stories, apparently by something invisible, actually by the iron content in his blood. Almost gently, he was lowered to the pavement. 

The occupants of the top floor ran pell-mell down to the next level, then the next, then the next after that. At every step, they heard the walls beginning to come apart around them. Miraculously, the stairway itself wasn't touched. 

Many people got to the elevators and frantically pressed the down button after enough of them had crowded in and others were kicked out. But the buttons didn't function. 

Instead, the elevator cars hurtled upward, out through the shorn-away roof of the building. They soared up like square missiles, then came down at a fairly tame pace, crashing to the streets around the building in neatly spaced intervals. The doors sprang open. The people within, shaken but not hurt, burst from the metal boxes and ran through the streets like they were afire. Cars in nearby traffic barely managed to miss them, but sometimes weren't lucky enough to avoid banging other vehicles. 

People were streaming from the ground level of the McCade Building as if they were lemmings. It was as if the structure was being leveled with great care and courtesy, so as to impress and terrify, but not to harm. 

They would probably have been grateful for that, if they'd had the time to stop and reflect. But nobody thought about that at the moment. 

The police were quickly alerted and surrounded the building, or what was left of it. Steel, glass, and concrete littered the streets for several blocks round about, and the remains was mostly a hole in the ground. A newly-made deconstruction site. 

Officer Alan Sayer looked at the mess from a close distance. "What in the hell caused this?" he asked, in wonder. 

"Maybe it's the Commies," opined his partner, Kirk Williams. "Want to go in and have a look?" 

"Hell, no," said Sayer. "You want to?" 

"No way," said Williams. Then both of them started forward to check out the scene. 

They hadn't taken three steps before a squad of oddly costumed people shot up from the debris as if on invisible springs. 

The two cops opened fire. There were several distinct results. 

One of the fruits in suits, as the cops liked to call them, a man of gargantuan bulk, like Jackie Gleason in shorts, took what slugs came at him without flinching. All they did was sink a ways into his body, from which he repelled them with an intake of breath. He began advancing on the two cops and the ones who joined them, one ponderous step at a time. 

Another, a vaguely Italian-looking man in a red and black suit, simply stood there and let the police fire at him. He took shot after shot, or appeared to. In reality, the slugs were spanging off something probably a foot or two on all sides of him, and at least one shooter was wounded by a ricochet. He was carrying a conventional Army flamethrower. When he got near enough to the police cars, he used it on some which were unoccupied. They exploded. Flaming gasoline and flying metal assaulted him. All of it rebounded harmlessly from his invisible shield. He seemed untouchable. 

Another couple of policemen converged on a guy in what appeared to be a brown opera cape. They had guns drawn and were about to tell him to hit the ground. Instead he made a gesture that looked like one Mandrake would make in the comic strips. 

A tremendous grey dragon reared up behind the man, one which had not been there a second before. 

Realizing that there was nothing in police procedurals to cover dragons, the cops took to their heels. 

A huge figure, larger even than the fat man in shorts, clad in a brown-and-red costume with a metal helmet that covered all but part of his face, stormed out into the fray and crashed through police vehicles, other cars, and anything else that got in his way as if they were paper. He threw cops through the air like rag dolls. After awhile, he stood there and silently dared the officers to come after him. Nobody answered his dare. 

There were others in the strange unit, but none so impressive as a large man in a red and purple outfit with a matching helmet. He raised purple-gloved hands and, in response, the blue-and-white cop cars began rising off the ground. Some of them still had occupants. They turned on their sides, opened their doors, and shook the cops out onto the street. Then each of the vehicles was piled on top of each other, one after the other, in a strange new form of metal sculpture. That it didn't fall over seemed a miracle, but, after the last few minutes, it would have been a minor one. 

The helmeted man raised one hand to the policemen, rubberneckers, and gathering newsmen on the perimeter. He spoke to them in a voice loud enough to override all their fearful shouts and murmurs. 

"We want the X-Men," said Magneto. "And we want them now." 

-M- 

The first thing that Reed and Sue saw when they landed the Fantasticar was a new configuration of Frightful Four...actually, more than four of them...battling Ben and Johnny. They barely had time to take note of the new membership before they pitched into the fray. 

The Human Torch had his left side covered in paste from the Trapster's gun, but he was lobbing fireballs back at that miscreant and at the Wizard, who was hovering by power of his anti-grav disc. The Thing was blitzing away at the Sandman with his fists, but it was like punching through a mess of brown sugar, except when the villain wanted to land a granite-hard punch. 

There was also: the Beetle, an old enemy of Johnny's and Ben's and half a dozen other heroes; the Plantman, whose strange ray-gun could control all vegetable life; Live-Wire, a guy who affected cowboy clothes and used a lasso charged with deadly energy; Shell-Shock, whose guns were loaded with projectiles of all kinds; and Jack Frost, a foe of Iron Man's, who had much the same abilities as Iceman, even though his were artificial rather than natural. 

Nothing they couldn't handle. Maybe. 

First order of business: the Sandman. Sue formed an invisible force field, scooped up as much of the grainy gladiator as she could in it, pushing Ben away gently in the process, and separated him from some of his sandy mass. She guessed she was getting the part with Sandman's head in it, and contracted the field as much as she could. 

The Sandman immediately expanded into a ball, pushing outwards against the field frantically and powerfully. Susan Richards strove with all her might to hold the field in place. It wasn't going to be easy. 

"Susie, watch it," cautioned Ben Grimm. At the same time, Live-Wire's lasso encircled him and crackled with power. Even the Thing winced a bit. The Beetle's extendible false "fingers" reached out to grab hold of Ben's head at the sides, their suction cups attaching themselves to his rocky skin. 

"This is a time for revenge, Thing," said the armored, flying foe. 

Ben grinned the way he had at the Japanese Zeroes twenty-five years ago. "There's only one kinda time this is, Beetle-brain..." 

He expanded his chest and burst Live-Wire's line, sending sparks everywhere. Then he grabbed the Beetle's gloves, wrenched them away from his head, dragged the Beetle closer with one three-fingered hand, and drew back his other fist. 

"And in case you haven't guessed, I'm gonna tell you..." 

Sue knew what was coming. 

"It's CLOBBERIN' TIME!" 

WHAMM. 

The Beetle flew backwards, not under his own power, and his wings left tracks in the concrete as they scraped them. For the moment, he was hors d' combat. 

The Human Torch increased his flame to a degree that sent heat waves through the whole surroundings. The Trapster's paste coating caked and fell off in pieces. "Maybe you should stick to Elmer's Glue next time, Paste-Pot," he remarked, sending a tiny flaming buzz-saw homing in on the feed line between the Trapster's adhesive source on his backpack and the gun he used to shoot it. 

The fiery saw failed to cut the line. 

Smirking, the Trapster said, "Y'didn't think I wouldn't fireproof the thing, didja?" Then he grabbed a gizmo from his backpack and threw it. It was tempered against all but the most extreme heat the Torch could generate, and it hit him square in the chest. A terrific shock of power coursed through his body, and he fell to the pavement, bruising his blazing forehead and chest. 

The Trapster moved closer, his gun set to shoot a more deadly sort of projectile than paste. "So long, Torchy," he said. "Plenty of hard feelings." 

Johnny was still in pain, but his hands were pressed against the blackening concrete. He raised his head a bit, sighted, and said, "Not nearly as hard as mine, paste-face." 

Then he sent two streams of fire from his hands along the concrete. 

They made a beeline for the Trapster and set the soles of his shoes on fire. 

Screaming, Pete began doing the hotfoot dance and ran for the grass where he could take his blazing boots off. Shooting the Torch or his three partners, or anything else much outside of breathing, definitely took a back seat. Even with that, he didn't get very far before a long, rubbery blue loop of arm drew itself around him like a boa constrictor and stopped him. 

"Going somewhere?" said the head of Reed Richards, elongating itself before him. 

Before the Trapster could speak, he got a surprisingly hard blue fist in the face and checked out of consciousness. 

But a voice came from behind and above Mr. Fantastic, and he knew the source of it well. "Careless, Richards," said the Wizard. "Very, very careless." 

Twin beams of power erupted from the Wizard's Wonder Gloves and blasted away at Reed. His rubbery nature only shielded him from a fraction of the force. 

In response, the Thing sunk his fingers into a slab of concrete, tore up a sidewalk-block-sized piece of it, and heaved it like a Frisbee at the Wizard. It struck him in the chest plate and knocked the breath out of him. Held aloft by anti-grav, the Wizard wheezed and tried to get the air back in his lungs. 

Ben grabbed Reed by the underarms as the latter's flexible form began to retract back to normalcy. "Stretcho. Talk ta me. You all right?" 

"All right, all right, Ben," huffed Reed. "See to Johnny, will you?" 

"Sure," said the Thing, taking the recovering Reed with him. The Torch was still hurting from the Trapster's device, his chest still pressed to the pavement. "Torchy," shouted Ben. "Flame off, willya?" 

The Human Torch groaned a bit, but shut off his flame and reduced his body heat. He could guess what his partner had in mind. With one craggy hand, Ben Grimm turned Johnny over on his back, grabbed the hurtful device of the Trapster's, pulled it off, and crushed it. Johnny Storm heaved a sigh of relief. 

Then he burst into flame again. "Thanks, big guy." 

"Don't mention it, matchstick," said the Thing. "What about Susie?" 

Reed Richards looked and pointed. "Over there!" 

The Invisible Girl tried to hold the line against the Sandman, who was straining her force-field's containment power with all his might. Then it became academic, as a burst of ice hit her from behind and began to cover her front as well. She gasped, paralyzed by the cold and shock, and in that moment the Sandman surged in pressure and burst through the force-field. 

His sandy grains formed into a head and upper torso, gasping for breath, as his other sand-mass slithered over the concrete to unite with the rest of him and form his regular body. "Cheez," he gasped. "About to pass out in there!" 

Jack Frost, administering the coup de grace to Sue Richards with his freeze-gun, snapped, "Look alive, Marko. The other three are still up 'n' running. I can't take 'em all." 

Then the ice exploded outward in chunks that made both villains dodge. Sue's invisible field was projected outward from her body, destroying her frigid prison. 

"You can't even take me," she said, and faded from sight. 

A blue battering ram smashed into Jack Frost and knocked him over. The Sandman tried to snag said ram, which was Reed Richards, with his enlarged, sandy paw, but Reed ducked under him, reformed into a ball, and bounced away. Mr. Fantastic was getting in his licks. 

The Thing and the Torch were charging forward, and the Plantman joined the fray. Costumed in green, with a leafy motif, he held up his plant-control ray gun. "Sorry I couldn't participate earlier," he said. "I just wanted to give the rest their chance before I wound things up." 

Abruptly, plants, vines, flexible-seeming trees began springing up from the ground where none had been before. They grew thorns, spikes, tendrils that their species ought not to have been capable of producing. Some of them had opened mouths with wooden fangs. Others had branches terminating in what looked like claws. And they weren't exactly still life. 

They were reaching for the Fantastic Four. 

The invisible Sue Richards found her feet, then her body, entangled in creeping vines that brought her down to the ground. Reed Richards tried to stretch out of the grasp of plants that tried to engulf every part of his body. The Human Torch blasted away at the woody and leafy foes he found, and the Thing ripped away at the monstrosities without hesitation. For all that, Sue and Reed were endangered. 

The Thing tore through another mess of fronds and came face-to-face with a grinning man in a yellow mask shaped like a star with lightning edges. "Hello, Thing," said Electro. "Let me keep you current." 

He raised his hands and blasted the Thing off his feet with a static electric charge just short of the force of a lightning bolt. Then he turned towards the Human Torch, to give him the same treatment. 

It also gave the other conscious villains the chance to attack the quartet en masse. It was beginning to look deadly. 

Then the lot of them were knocked to the ground by a THOOM of a ground tremor. All, that is, save the Wizard, who was airborne and was able to see what had produced the action. 

It was the booted, metal-shod foot of a large, brown-haired, masked and costumed figure known to the few who were aware of his existence as Gorgon. 

A number of individuals were piling out of a newly-landed magnetic hovercraft behind him. They included one who was well-known to three of them as an original member of the Frightful Four, when she had amnesia: Madame Medusa, whose six-foot lengths of red hair were alive, motile, and formidable. There was Triton, a water-breathing, scaly, fish-like being who could generate enough pressure within his body to punch through the wall of a submarine. He was flanked by Karnak, a grim, short, mustached martial artist whose metal-banded hands could shatter virtually any substance. 

Behind them was Black Bolt, their black-costumed, silent leader, who raised one hand and sent a blast of free-floating electrons at the Wizard. It connected and knocked him out of the sky. 

From his position on the concrete, the leader of the former Frightful Four assessed the situation quickly and made a command. 

"Sandman," he said, "maneuver 12." 

The green-costumed Sandman immediately reconverted his body into sand, creating an artificial sandstorm. The members of the Fantastic Four and the Inhumans were suddenly blinded by the grainy assault. Reed Richards tried reaching out with his rubbery limbs, but couldn't make contact with his foes. The Torch was afraid to try hurling fireballs without clear sight, as was Black Bolt to try any further electron blasts. The Invisible Girl wasn't able to get her force-field up in time. 

The Trapster threw down a device that produced a horrible high-pitched screech, sending all the defenders to their knees. It lasted for less than thirty seconds before the Torch homed in on it with his flames and melted it to slag. 

He burned the sand out of his eyes. 

The villains were gone. 

The other heroes were wiping sand from their own or the others' eyes, trying to get back in action once again. The Thing, his blue eyes ringed with red, muttered, "Okay, Stretch. First order o' biz...where the heck are they?" 

Reed Richards sighed in disappointment. "Sorry, Ben. I'm as buffaloed as you are, right now." He turned, stretched out a hand, and shook that of Black Bolt. "But, Black Bolt, I'm pleased that you and the Royal Family could act as backup. I know it's been a tough time for you, lately." 

"True, Reed Richards," said Medusa. "But never too hard for us to remember our friends." 

Triton said, "We greet you all in Black Bolt's name. But I shall check beneath the waves to see if our foes have attempted an underwater escape." He sprinted off, heading for the edge of Bedloe's Island. 

Karnak, assuming a more at-ease stance, said, "It is doubtful we shall be able to track them so easily. Your enemies apparently had an escape plan efficiently prepared." 

Johnny Storm, near Gorgon, flamed off. "Good to see you again, Big Feet. But I see Crystal couldn't make it." 

"Sadly, you are correct, Torch," the big Inhuman confirmed. "Crystal is still unable to breathe unaided in your world. She sends you her love, and hopes to see you soon." 

"Same for me, and be sure to tell her," said the Torch. 

Medusa turned to Reed. "What was the point of this attack, Richards? Was it just to lure you into a fight, with their new members in reserve? Or something beyond?" 

Mr. Fantastic shook his head. "For once, Medusa, I'm not really sure. But I have my suspicions. Care to come back to the Baxter Building with me?" 

The redheaded Inhuman looked to Black Bolt. He held up both arms, his hands spaced far apart. She nodded. "Black Bolt gives consent. We shall go." 

-M- 

PARKER 

Part of being a superhero, kids, is learning to adapt to new bad guys quickly. You know about your regular waltzing partners, sure. But you also try and keep track of other villains other guys fight, because you never know when one of 'em will turn up in your backyard. That's why, even though I'd never gotten into a punch-up with the Matador or Gladiator, I had a hunch about what they could do. 

As for Doc Ock, the Vulture, and Mysterio, I knew what they could do already. They could give me plenty of trouble. 

The usual way out of that was to make trouble for them. 

So that's what I decided to do. 

-M- 

"Surround him!" screamed Dr. Octopus, his four metal arms extending out towards the blue-and-red costumed man among them. The three deadly pincers at the end of each arm were clacking like a lobster's claws. "Vulture, cover him from above! The rest of you, encircle him and close in. Do it!" 

In response, Spider-Man leaped. 

He jumped from the wooden planks of the pier to the top of Mysterio's domed head, then up into the air, barely missing the swishing arms of Octopus or the blades of the Gladiator, heading in from the other side. He heard the Matador curse in Spanish, but paid it little mind. 

The target he was concentrating on was coming in from above. 

Adrian Toomes, aka the Vulture, had perfected a magnetic inverter that allowed him to defy gravity, along with wings that enabled him to direct his flight. For all his old-man appearance, he was a formidable combatant and had given Spider-Man tough fights every time they'd tangled. 

Spidey sprayed him with web lines as he sprang into the air, catching the flying felon on the chest and enabling him to climb up to the Vulture on the web itself. The bald villain snarled and made ready to clout Spider-Man when he came within range. 

Spider-Man clouted first. For all his power, the Vulture lacked his foe's super-strength. His eyes crossed and he went unconscious, still buoyed in the air by the power of his flight device. 

"Sorry, Vultch," said Spider-Man, "but I haven't got time for Auld Lang Syne with you today. All apologies." 

He felt a charge of electricity go through his hands and recoiled in pain. Looking down, he saw the Matador touching his electrified sword to the web-line. Just great. 

"Come, toro," said the elegantly costumed villain. "Face me in this wood-and-water arena. Face me, and die." 

In response, Spider-Man jumped from the Vulture's back, feet-first, and came down hard on the Matador's face. The villain slammed his head on the wooden pier, his sword falling from his senseless hands. 

Two down. 

But Mysterio raised his arms and a cloud of smoke billowed forth towards Spider-Man. He was rapidly engulfed in the fumes, obscuring his vision. His spider-sense was still going off, but that was little comfort. Spidey already knew he was in danger. 

Especially when he felt a couple of metal arms encircling his body. 

"Doc," he said. "I know you've been asked this before, but what kind of hand lotion do you use, really? Pennzoil?" 

Otto Octavius shouted something and tried to wind a tentacle about Spider-Man's neck. Instead, the web-slinger pushed the coil above his head, turned towards Octopus, who was visible now due to the waving arms thinning the mist, and let him have a glob of web fluid right in his open mouth. 

Octopus choked, spitting out much of it, but his jaws were still stuck together. Luckily, it hadn't gone down his throat, and his nostrils were still uncovered. But he was clawing at his face with his human hands, and his metal arms were distracted enough for Spider-Man to leap free. 

A metal-gloved hand came down at him when he landed. 

Spider-Man leaped back and the Gladiator's blade buzzed through the planks of the dock. "Next time, web-head," he promised. 

"Fine, pal," quipped Spidey, crouching. "Let me make an appointment, though." 

A familiar voice was heard behind him. "Any appointments for death must be made with me, Spider-Man." A punch to the back of his head knocked him sprawling. 

His skull aching, Spider-Man got up from the planks to see two new arrivals. One, the speaker, was Kraven the Hunter. He'd half-expected him to be there, given their battle of a day ago. The second was another old enemy, in a yellow and brown padded costume, whose metal-encased hands were capable of delivering punishing shock waves. Spider-Man knew him as the Shocker. 

Old villains' week. 

"So what do you call yourselves, anyway?" groaned Spidey. "The Sinister Sixteen?" 

"Waste him," advised the Gladiator. 

Spider-Man's hands went to his midsection. He pulled up his shirt enough to expose his belt, and his thumb struck a control stud atop a device that adorned its buckle. 

At its highest setting, the Spider-Signal shone straight into Kraven's and the Shocker's eyes, blinding them temporarily. Their hands went to their eyes. 

The hero turned. The armored Gladiator was still charging in. His deadly saw blades were buzzing, and anything that could cut through Iron Man's armor wouldn't have too much problem with human flesh. 

As long as it got there, of course. 

Spidey hit him low, like a football tackle. He grabbed both the Gladiator's legs, taking care not to cut his hands on his bladed boots, and swung his opponent up, over, and down as hard as he could, slamming him with a terrific bang onto the pier. It splintered and cracked with the impact, but still held together. 

The Gladiator was stunned. 

It was time to take the better part of discretion. Spider-Man leaped over his remaining foes and headed down the pier, escaping. As he took another bound, a new, green-costumed foe leaped towards him, easily equalling his jump through a pair of springs on his flipper-shaped boots. 

"Surprise, surprise," said the Leap Frog, gun in hand. 

"I don't have time for this," snapped Spidey, and uncorked a haymaker. The gun flew one way and the Leap Frog went the other. 

By the time Mysterio roused his fellows from their respective stupors, Spider-Man was long gone. They had time to escape the inevitable police arrival. But they were not pleased. Kraven, least of all. 

Very soon, they would meet their nemesis again. This time, they would have even more help. 

-S- 

PARKER 

I went back home, changed along the way, and hugged Gwen hello. She knew from the way my hair looked and my underarms smelled that I'd been in a fight. She asked me who with. I wish I'd been better at keeping things from her, kids, and that I'd been able to tell her it was just a muscular jaywalker. But I told her I'd tell her who it was after I took a bath. She wouldn't let me go until I fessed up. 

After I got my bath, both of us sat there in our robes across from each other at the kitchen table, and ate dinner without saying much. When we were done, she said, "You almost got killed." 

I told her, "I didn't. Those mukluks were stumbling over each other's feet, as usual. They do much better solo." 

She said, "You got lucky. If you hadn't been, I'd have been...oh, Peter..." 

She meant that she'd have been going to my funeral maybe the next day. 

About that time I hugged her again and tried to reassure her that it was going to be all right, that I knew how to handle those guys, that I'd been doing it for years and hadn't gotten badly hurt. I hope I sounded a lot more reassuring than I felt. 

But she didn't buy it. I think, deep inside, I knew that she was pretty right. I'd faced off against eight bad guys that evening, and barely escaped getting my web-covered head handed to me. 

So what was I supposed to do? She wanted me to quit. 

As long as they were out there, I knew I couldn't. 

But outside of that, I didn't know what to do. 

-M- 

Norman Osborn thought the dreams were over. They had only begun. 

There were times in his life that were just gaps to him now. He had no idea of what had happened to him for a long time before Spider-Man had saved him from a blaze near his chemical factory. He was grateful to the web-slinger for that, and for restoring his memory. But there had been a couple of gaps since then, parts of his life he had simply lost. 

What in Heaven's name was he doing then? 

That frightened him. Here he was, the head of a large chemical corporation, a successful businessman, the widowed father to a son successfully employed as a junior exec in his firm, now married to Mary Jane Watson, an apparently flighty girl who was proving a fine wife, and... 

...he couldn't trust his memory. 

Psychiatrists didn't much help. All they could do was tell him he had amnesia and that he seemed to be afraid of his former favorite color, green. 

Harry had dragged him along to a reading at ESU recently by one of Harry's favorite authors, a short guy with mounds of effected cool, named Harlan Ellison. The guy had made some semi-humorous left-wing political speeches and read a couple of his stories. One of them had been a kind of anti-drug screed. Norman figured that Harry, who had experimented once with LSD, could have standed to hear more of that. 

But, for some reason, Norman couldn't. His hands started to tremble, and he had to restrain himself to keep from crying out. He asked Harry to help him leave, and Harry did. 

Then he came home and went to bed. 

He didn't know what had frightened him so about the story. Druggies were pathetic, but they didn't scare him. No, it was something in the story. A specific image. And maybe the title. 

Osborn said it aloud. He forced himself to, in a voice barely above a whisper, there in the dark: 

"Shattered Like a Glass Goblin." 

-M- 

In the great hangar, Gary Gilbert looked up at the sizeable yellow plane. 

It was of AIM's own design, a bit too small to be an efficient transport but big enough for what Gilbert needed. It was a bomber of sorts, but it would deliver a payload like none ever unleashed before. It only had to be used once. 

"Nice," he said. "But that's only part of it." 

The AIM man before him nodded. "The payload is here," he said, gesturing to a large wooden crate with several deadly symbols upon it and some armed guards posted about it. "It will be ready for delivery soon." 

"Put it in right now," said Gilbert. 

"Now?" 

"Now." 

After a moment of hesitation, the yellow-costumed AIM rep nodded to the guards. They motioned to some attendants, who came with a forklift-like device and took up the crate delicately. Then they conveyed it to the plane. 

The AIM man couldn't suppress a shudder as they began to open the crate. 

But Gary Gilbert was smiling. 

Almost the final step had been taken to start the Fire. 

To be continued...   
  



	15. Part 15:  The Sundered SHIELD

  
FIRE! 

Part 15 

by DarkMark 

Nick Fury looked out of the porthole in the side of the Heli-Carrier at the island of Manhattan. 

That big ship of concrete had changed so much in the many years he'd been alive, but not so much he couldn't recognize it. Yeah, New York City was his home, all right. 

"Thinkin' what a long, strange trip it's been, Nick?" said a voice behind him. 

Fury knew the voice. He didn't even turn around. "Where'd you get that from, Gabe? That Million Megaton Explosion crap?" 

Gabriel Jones smiled. "Nah. Grateful Dead. They're a band. Musician's gotta keep up with the times at least a little ways, Nick." 

"Times ain't worth keeping up with, Gabe," grunted Fury, puffing on his cigar. "Not these times, anyway." 

Moving a little closer, Gabe said, "Maybe you're forgettin' a little about what times used to be like, Nick. I haven't." 

"Neither have I," said Fury, turning casually and taking the cigar out of his mouth. "In case you think I forgot how the Howlers used to haveta get inta fights to make sure you got inta pubs...I ain't." 

Gabriel Jones nodded, somberly. The Howling Commandoes had been one of the first integrated units in the entire Army. Eleanor Roosevelt, it was said, had lobbied her husband to have the thing done. But Gabe had not only been a world-class trumpet player. He was a first-class soldier as well, definitely Howler material, and the squad wouldn't have been complete without him. 

"Also how we had to go with that private to see his folks in the internment camp," said Nick, tipping his cigar ash into one of the trays that seemed to be positioned every twenty feet around the Heli-Carrier. "Or the time we had to teach some manners to the guy that called Izzy a kike. Yeah. I remember that, Jones." 

"So do I," said Gabe, quietly. 

"But I remember the other way it used to be, too," Fury continued. "How it felt to see the flag passin' by in a parade. How the folks back home treated ya when you went back for a visit. What it was like, knowin' you were fightin' on the right side. When it was all right to like America. Yeah, Jones. I remember it all." 

Gabe smiled lightly. And Nick thought Captain America was the only one who wasted his time in nostalgia. 

"Y'really wanna hear me tell it again, Jones? You musta heard it enough times to take it to Jebru and back already." 

"You forgot, Nick. We fought all the way to Jebru and back, already." 

"Yeah," said Fury. "Yeah." And he looked out of the porthole of the Heli-Carrier at the setting sun reddening the clouds not far away. The man who looked at them seemed to be in his late 30's or early 40's. 

He had been born during World War I. 

All things considered, Nick supposed that he had been conceived during one of his father Jack's furloughs home from the front. He had been born in 1917. His brother and sister, Jake and Dawn, had come along in the same package the next year. But that was a few months after Jack Fury, a flying ace of World War I, had died in combat. 

Jack's wife Brigitte had gone to work in a laundry and the family had moved, not without protest, to Hell's Kitchen. It was about as good as they could get, and the getting was none too good. But at least when the Depression hit a few years later, they were prepared. They were tough. They had to be, for the times and the neighborhood. 

The neighborhood was perilously close to the domain of the Yancy Street Gang. 

Nick Fury learned about fighting the hard way, joining a mob of toughies and proving he was worthy to battle beside them, against the Yancy Streeters. Sometimes he was joined by a tall, tough orphan kid who was being raised by his aunt, and both of them took part in what they called the "Friday night social meeting" with the Yancy bunch. 

Years later, the other kid got out of Hell's Kitchen on a football scholarship, went to Empire State University, and soon became a flying ace in the Pacific. His plane, which sent many a Zero to Davy Jones's Locker, was known by the motto painted on its fuselage: the Grimm Reaper. 

Very often, Nick had to fight to defend Jake. His younger, more sickly brother had a nasty temper, a big mouth, and few muscles to back them up. One time, when Nick had to beat three rowdies to save the kid, Jake had sneered that he could have taken them all if Nick hadn't shown up. 

To that, Nick finally lost control and answered with a roundhouse right that blackened Jake's eye. 

Dawn was caught between the two of them, always doing well at school (as did Jake, who was probably smarter than Nick in book-learning). Mrs. Fury did well to hold the tribe together, but she was tasked by it. 

Eventually, Nick found himself in a flying circus of sorts with a guy named Red Hargrove, and became an expert parachuter. One thing led to another, until an encounter with a carny strongman named Dum Dum Dugan and several others during the Pearl Harbor incident swept them all into the Army, as a special attack squad known as the Howling Commandoes. 

Nick Fury became their first and only sergeant. 

The others were a mixed lot, from all over the country: Izzy Cohen, the Jewish mechanic from the Bronx; Dum Dum Dugan; Dino Manelli, the movie heartthrob who could speak German well enough to pass as one of the enemy; Rebel Ralston, the Southerner who brought with his combat ability and poker-playing skills the "WAH-HOOO!" yell that had become their trademark; Junior Juniper, fresh out of college and still looking like he was in high school; and, of course, Gabe Jones himself, a trumpeter from Harlem who seized the chance to make the Howlers one of the Army's first integrated units. To their credit, none of the other Howlers seemed to give a damn about Gabe's color. If anybody else did, seven men taught them to regret it. 

Red Hargrove died in the adventure that brought them together. Not long after the squad's formation, Junior Juniper died. He was soon replaced, if a man ever can be "replaced", by Percival "Pinky" Pinkerton, a Britisher with a penchant for umbrellas and a knack for using them (and a Browning rifle) in a most effective fashion. Much later, the Howlers even gained a recruit from the enemy. He was Ernest Koenig, a German who had come to hate Hitler, and fought with the Commandoes to free his homeland, and his sister, from the Nazis. Eventually he was successful in both. 

Before that time, Fury met with Baron Strucker, his opposite number from the Nazis. The American sergeant was duped into a fight with the German while drugged, allowing the Krauts a propaganda victory for awhile. Fury was stripped of his rank. But, in a second fight with Strucker, the Baron's scheme was exposed, and Fury beat his foe to a bloody pulp. The Howlers got pictures of the scene to confirm Fury's victory, and the Nazis' propaganda was turned against them. Fury was reinstated as the Howlers' sergeant. 

Neither Fury nor Strucker ever forgot that encounter. Soon, the Baron would form his own Blitzkrieg Squad, specifically designed to counter the Howling Commandoes. The two teams faced and fought many times before one claimed victory. Strucker fell from grace with Hitler and was forced into hiding, turning to renegade Japanese to form the budding organization known as HYDRA. But Fury wouldn't learn of that for decades to come. 

The Howlers spearheaded the D-Day invasion with a secret mission of their own, and aided the charge into Hitler's heartland. They fought all the way, up to Berlin, up to the point in which the first Human Torch burned Hitler to death. They were about to be sent to the Pacific Theater when somebody let them know that a bomb had been dropped someplace in Japan. One bomb later, peace terms were negotiated and accepted. 

That was it for the war, but not for the Howlers. 

Most of them stayed in the army. The one or two who didn't came back within a couple of years. By the outbreak of the Korean War, all of them were around to be reformed as the Howlers, save Eric Koenig, who had gone back to help rebuild the free half of his homeland. Fury was promoted to lieutenant early in the war for bravery. The Howlers fought on till the cessation of hostilities (or at least open ones). 

Then they came back home, and got out of the army. 

Rebel became a senator. Percy managed a Playboy Club in London. Dino got his own variety show on TV, along with some hit records and movies. Gabe went back to playing jazz, and Dum Dum tried a number of ventures, including a trucking company, none of which worked out. Eric became an airline pilot for Lufthansa. 

And Nick Fury, looking around for something to do, was approached by Wild Bill Donovan for work in the Central Intelligence Agency. 

It turned out to be the kind of gig Fury could get behind...helping out Uncle Sam by working undercover against the Communists. On occasion, he also went up against international crime. At one such occasion, he was dosed with something called the Eternity Formula, which severely retarded his aging process. It turned out that, of all the Howlers, only Dum Dum Dugan and Gabe Jones were of his blood type. So, in gratitude for their comradeship, he made them a gift of a blood transfusion, and their longevity was also extended. Not as greatly as Nick's, but they might live to over 100 years if they didn't get killed first. 

In 1963, Fury was thrown into conjunction with the Fantastic Four. Two of them he'd already met...Reed Richards, as an OSS guy who'd helped the Howlers once during the war; Ben Grimm, as a fellow street warrior in the 30's and as a war hero in the Pacific during the Big One. The other two, Sue and Johnny Storm, were new to him. They all went up against a villain called the Hate-Monger in South America. When the Hate-Monger got shot by his own troops, they unmasked him. Fury could have died on the spot. 

The Hate-Monger had the face of Adolf Hitler. 

Was it really him? Was it just a double? Was it some fanatic who'd had plastic surgery? There was no telling. But the Hate-Monger was definitely dead. That seemed to end things. 

Except that, in recent times, the Hate-Monger had come back again, and again, and again... 

And, only weeks after that, Fury had lost the sight in his right eye. He'd had a wartime injury which threatened to rob him of sight in that eye for years. His kid brother Jake just decided to hasten the process along, by shooting him in it. 

From that day on, Fury wore an eye-patch. It was a long time before he ever saw Jake again, with his good eye. 

Two years passed, while Fury adjusted to life with his new impairment and continued to work for the Agency. Then he was told to go to a certain place in Manhattan which, of all things, was hidden by the facade of a fully-operational barber shop. It turned out to be a place that looked more like Mission Control at Houston. He was thrust half-naked into a matrix that looked like a bathtub full of foam rubber. From that, the techs quickly created a brace of robots that looked just like him, named Life Model Decoys, or LMD's for short. Each of these was turned loose on the street. He saw each one of them destroyed by hidden assassins. 

From there, he was taken by a car with flight capacities to the very heli-carrier he stood in today, for the first time. He met a host of higher-ups from all over the free world, including Tony Stark, the millionaire industrialist who had designed the thing they were flying in and most of the weaponry the people in it used. They told him they were an American-based organization called SHIELD, which stood for Supreme Headquarters, International Espionage and Law-enforcement Division. 

They also told him that their previous director had gotten killed by an enemy organization called HYDRA, and that they had chosen him to be their new leader. 

Fury had protested that he wasn't suited for the job. Even though they'd made him a colonel, he said he was still a three-striper at heart. If he tried to take on a job like this, he'd "fall flat on his ugly pan." He looked down, in embarrassment and shame. 

That's when he saw a wire leading to the seat he'd been sitting in. 

Operating on instinct more than anything else, Nick Fury had ripped up the chair from its base, ran with it to a porthole, smashed the porthole, and threw the chair out. It exploded. Taking charge of the guards on duty as if they were Dum Dum and the group, Fury barked orders, gave directions, took charge, and set them on a hunt for the saboteur. As it turned out, he found the guilty party himself, and took him down. 

After he got back to the command deck of the Heli-Carrier, he saw Tony Stark and company waiting for him, their expressions resolute and satisfied. Nick finally realized what he'd just done. "So it's us or HYDRA, right?" Stark allowed that such was the case. 

SHIELD had a new director. 

Fury's war with HYDRA had begun. 

Practically his first action was to bring Dum Dum Dugan and Gabe Jones on board, which duties they accepted after a little cajoling. It turned out they were almost as well-suited to SHIELD duty as they had been for the Howling Commandoes. That helped, as he needed men whose caliber he already knew. 

HYDRA was a juggernaut of a secret organization whose origins extended all the way back to World War II. Their operatives wore bulky green robes and hood-masks, with big yellow H's emblazoned on the robes. Their weaponry was at least as formidable as SHIELD's, and the secret warfare they waged against each other was almost as deadly as the battles Fury had experienced twenty years ago in Europe and the Pacific. 

In the first round of that war, HYDRA came within a hair of world conquest. They succeeded in launching a Betatron Bomb into orbit around the Earth, one which would blanket the world in killing radiation whether it was attacked or HYDRA chose to detonate it themselves. Only days afterward, they also succeeded in kidnapping Nick Fury himself. 

But Fury managed to break out of his imprisonment, even as Tony Stark went into space in an experimental "Dyna-Soar" craft to successfully disarm the bomb. SHIELD tracked Fury to the HYDRA headquarters where he was being held, and broke the back of HYDRA in a furious battle which took the life of the Imperial Hydra himself. 

SHIELD thought that was the end of it. But Fury wasn't so sure. 

There were other enemies to be faced in the days which came after: Mentallo, the Fixer, the Druid, a coterie of red-costumed plotters called the Secret Empire, and, finally, a group of high-tech enemies who dressed in yellow uniforms and hatbox-style helmets. Their first code name was THEM, and they used androids, among other things, to bedevil Fury and SHIELD. 

Then they found out that THEM was operating behind the facade of an industrial giant known as Advanced Idea Mechanics, or AIM, as they were more popularly known. When the imposture was exposed, the group simply went by the name AIM from then on. After another battle like unto the one against HYDRA, SHIELD destroyed AIM. Or so it seemed. 

In short order, Fury and his allies discovered that AIM and the Secret Empire were only branches of the original HYDRA organization, and that HYDRA was far from destroyed. A smaller branch of the group, but one which apparently controlled the larger one that Fury had faced, was still extant. The new HYDRA surfaced in the affair of the Overkill Horn, in which Fury had to stop yet another death-weapon in HYDRA's hands. He encountered the Supreme Hydra while the latter was in disguise, and had no idea who he really was. 

A few months afterward, Fury found out, when he was again kidnaped and taken to HYDRA Island, the enemy's seagoing, plastic-encased headquarters. The bad guys were threatening the world again, this time with germ warfare. A Death Spore Bomb had been secreted in the SHIELD helicarrier, and unless the world ceded its rulership to HYDRA, the men in the green robes promised to set it off. 

Their leader was Baron Strucker. 

Fury was strapped into a deathtrap again, but managed to escape, fight off the men of HYDRA Island single-handedly, and saw Strucker destroyed. Then he made away from the island with Laura Brown, the daughter of the original Imperial Hydra, in tow. Behind him he left the Death Spore Bomb, which he himself had brought there from the Heli-Carrier. It annihilated the men of HYDRA. 

There were other deadly challenges after that, including the Yellow Claw (who actually proved to be a robot duplicate of the Oriental menace), Centurius, Supremus, even the Hate-Monger. Remnant versions of AIM and HYDRA also turned up again. But none of them shook Fury as much as the man called Scorpio. 

Scorpio was a costumed master of disguise who established several different identities for himself, none of which were bound to be true. He was also brilliant, deadly, tough as nails, armed with a power-key that looked like a metallic Zodiac symbol, and, for some reason, insistent upon seeing Nick Fury dead. 

Fury faced him twice. The second time, the head of SHIELD barely escaped a deathtrap set by Scorpio, and then chased him down a hallway, managing to tear a mask from his face in the process. 

The sight paralyzed Fury more than the one he saw beneath the Hate-Monger's mask. 

He looked into the eyes of his younger brother, Jake Fury. 

Some SHIELD guards came streaming down the hallway right then, shouting out a warning to Fury. Scorpio shoved him away and smashed through a window, plummeting into the waters off a dock below. A hail of steel-jacketed bullets chased him, and the SHIELD men kept pumping until their ammo ran out. 

Jake couldn't have survived that. No way. 

But they never found a body. 

For better than a week, Fury kept a lonely vigil at nights on that dock, waiting for something of Jake Fury to turn up. It never did. They had found the power-key Scorpio used, however. Fury wanted to know more of what his brother had been into, in the years of his absence. After all, there were more signs in the Zodiac than just Scorpio. 

So he took up the key, masqueraded as Scorpio himself, and soon learned that his brother had been only one-twelfth of an organization known, aptly enough, as Zodiac. Each of the members bore the name of a Zodiacal sign...Aries, the leader, and Aquarius, Virgo, Gemini, Cancer, Sagittarius, Taurus, Libra, Leo, Capricorn, and Pisces. Fury had to team up with the Avengers to take them down. He revealed and abandoned his pose as Scorpio in that case. 

He never learned what happened to Jake Fury. 

Along the way, Fury found a woman to love, the first one who could take the place of Pamela Hawley, a British nurse he'd lost in World War II. The woman's name was Val de Fontaine, and she was a minor countess with a European lineage. She was also the most beautiful woman Fury had ever seen. And she was a SHIELD agent. 

Val had soon responded to Fury's roughhewn charm, and the two had begun keeping company. That was eventually what led to trouble with Captain America. 

Both Val and Cap's girl, Sharon Carter, also a SHIELD agent, were members of a unit called the Female Furies. When Val saw Cap, she was drawn to him, and admitted her attraction to Sharon. It wasn't hard for Fury to see it, either. 

He and Cap had worked together, on and off, since the shield-slinger and Bucky had helped the Howlers crush Operation Einfall during the war. Later, they had taken down some operatives of the Yellow Claw during the 1965 Blackout. They had collaborated together quite often since then, with Cap going on frequent assignments for Fury. But the Val thing drove a wedge between them. Even though the Contessa had finally chosen Nick again, the matter still rankled. 

That was where it stood. But if Nick needed a good man in a costume, he grudgingly knew where to find him. 

And now what? Hell was breaking loose all over, and the superheroes were trying to cope with it. In New York, Chicago, and Dallas, and probably some other places before long. This was coordinated action. Planned. Couldn't be anything else. But who had planned it? 

Doom? The Yellow Claw? Or Magneto, who'd already shown his hand? 

So far, it wasn't SHIELD business. Not unless it involved HYDRA, AIM, or something more threatening to security than a bunch of costumed cretins bashing each other's brains out. But SHIELD could still try and figure out what was going on, and get the info to the ones who needed it. 

But what about Senator Dirksen? He wanted to cut funding to SHIELD, now that HYDRA hadn't shown itself to be much more than a backstop for the Red Skull in the last go-round, and AIM had become, apparently, a supply house for the highest bidder. But, hell, they'd thought HYDRA was dead before, and it always came back worse. "Cut off a limb, and two shall take its place." They really weren't kidding about that one. 

So what would happen the next time the guys in the hoods threatened the world with a bomb or a bug or something else, and SHIELD didn't have the power to stop them? 

He didn't think he should have to tell Dirksen about the Maginot Line and how good it was against the Nazis. But maybe somebody would have to. 

There was always something. 

"Nick." 

It was Dum Dum's voice, coming over a viewscreen. They had the things all over the place, for immediate communication. The old walrus sounded tense, to Nick's ears. Gabe had picked up on it, too. 

Fury looked up. "What's up, Dugan?" 

The mustached man in the derby held up a newspaper to the camera. "This, first off." 

Seeing it, Nick opened his mouth almost wide enough to drop his cigar. 

It was an underground newspaper that hoped to be the East Village Other when it grew up, or Rolling Stone even further down the line. But the thing that shocked the hell out of both Fury and Gabe was the photo of a seemingly innocuous barbershop on the front page, and a banner headline above it, reading: 

SHIELD'S SECRET HIDEOUT EXPOSED. 

"My God," said Fury. "Oh, my God." 

Dum Dum had more to say. "There's a demonstration on in front o' the shop. We sent some guards out. So far, ain't nobody hurt. But, Nick..." 

Fury was checking the piece in his shoulder holster. "I'm on my way," he said. 

Both he and Gabe Jones were soon sprinting to the exit bay. 

-M- 

The barber shop was under siege. 

It had been cover for SHIELD's underground headquarters for years, and few had known of it, except some guys in government, a few super-heroes who had to, and AIM, who found out about it, and HYDRA, who knew about it for a long time. To the general public, it was as secret as the place where the president was supposed to go in case of a nuclear attack. 

That is, before today. 

Slim, Harry, and Georgia, who were the agents who functioned as barbers and manicurist, respectively, had been hustled into the below-ground part of the complex once the headline hit the fan. The SHIELD installation took up more than a whole block of space underground, and was several stories deep. It had taken a miracle just to get the thing built, but the government had managed it. 

Now, a host of SHIELD men in uniforms were standing abreast in front of and behind the shop, some of them even on top of it, and many of them trying to surround the block, in concert with some of New York's Finest. The latter were keeping a seemingly ad hoc crowd of hairies with signs and anger pent behind a row of sawhorses and police tape for the moment. There had been enough protests during the war years for the cops to get used to the scenario. 

But SHIELD wasn't. 

Clay Quatermain looked out at the small sea of people and wet his lips. Countess Valentina Allegro de Fontaine looked at him, briefly. Quatermain was usually a braggart, loudmouthed, capable as anything and reliable, but hard to endure. This time, he wasn't mouthing off. 

She didn't blame him. SHIELD was never designed to take on civilians. 

And the specter of Kent State was not far from their minds, now. 

Jimmy Woo, an FBI agent whom Fury had recruited for SHIELD during the Yellow Claw affair, surveyed the protestors as grimly as any of the others. "Fury on his way, Val?" 

She nodded. "Don't know how long it'll take, but probably not too long. Remember, no lethal force." 

"Affirmative. Just hope they don't try to use it on us." 

"Amen," said Quatermain. That was all he could manage. All of them were armed with stun-weapons and other things, most of them non-lethal. But there was no guarantee that those besieging SHIELD would play by the same rules. 

Val's coterie of Female Furies were on the scene, standing fast with the men. Nobody knew what in Heaven's name they'd have to do with the people and equipment down below. There wasn't enough space to store everything on the Heli-Carrier. But how could they leave anything or anybody down there, when their cover had been blown? 

A bearded guy in shades, a vest, and no shirt was sitting on a taller guy's shoulders. He raised a megaphone to his lips. 

"We've got some words for the people of SHIELD," he said, in an amplified voice. 

The squad of agents stood alert, ready, and tense. 

The man with the megaphone continued. "You've been great at putting down HYDRA, and AIM, and all those guys in the funny zoot-suits that said they wanted to take over the world. But what about the guys who already run the world? Why haven't you put them down, SHIELD? What about the fascist dictator greedheads in the military-industrial complex? What about the Moloch-like generals who send a hundred men and more to die every day in Viet Nam? What about the scum who design and manufacture our atomic bombs, that put the whole world in danger? What about THEM, SHIELD?" 

The protestors, on cue, voiced a roar of approval. Clay Quatermain flinched. "Steady, Clay," warned Val. 

"How much good were you when John Kennedy died? Were you on the job then, SHIELD? How about when Medgar Evers died? Or when Bobby Kennedy bought it? Or Martin Luther King? Or maybe even Fred Hampton?" 

"You lousy son...!" started Quatermain, and tried to rush forward. Val grabbed for his wrist and Jimmy Woo blocked him. Breathing hard, Clay allowed himself to be restrained. 

The rabble rouser noted the action, and smiled with pleasure before raising the 'phone to his lips again. The guy holding him up gave him a thumb's-up before pumping up one fisted arm in a power salute. The speaker took up his tirade again. 

"SHIELD is nothing more than a super-CIA. It's out here to prop up the corrupt power structure, with a fouled root underground and a garbage scow above, trying to cast its shadow over the People. You've hidden away like cowards, but now we have exposed you to the light. We want the supreme SHIELD jackal here to face us. We want Nick Fury. WE WANT FURY! WE WANT FURY!" 

And an answering chant came from the hairy horde, in response: "WE WANT FURY! WEEE WANT FURYYY!" 

The chanting went on and on, gathering in intensity. "WE WANT FURY...WE WANT FURY...WE WANT FURY..." 

Dum Dum Dugan joined the other three elite agents, looking out at the crowd. "Buncha Nazis. They oughta have a bunch of swastika flags with eagles on top of 'em, 'stead'a signs." 

"Easy, Dum Dum," said Jimmy. "These punks are on the opposite end of the Nazis, politically. But sometimes...the methods tend to look the same." 

"You're wrong," said Clay Quatermain, surprising them all. "Lots of 'em are just scared kids, and maybe they've got reason to be scared. Not of us, but of the world. A lot of 'em don't know what they've given their strength to. They may learn about it all too late." 

"Whatever the case," said Val, "we don't use killing force. This isn't going to be a repeat of Chicago." 

Dum Dum pointed at the crowd. "Tell them that." 

A bottle flew in, hit Dum Dum on his derby-covered forehead, and knocked him sprawling. Another agent moved to pick him up, quickly. The others looked after him. He was hurt, but not injured. He was also seething. 

"Damn," he said, softly and with feeling. "Damn." 

Other missiles were being thrown by certain members of the crowd, now: bottles, bricks, sticks, even plastic bags filled with human excrement. The cops were embattled, trying to push back. The SHIELD agents moved forward to back them up. The crowd began to surge forward. It was very nearly a stalemate, but nobody could tell how long that would last. 

Fear walked that street, and favored both sides. 

Then somebody on the outskirts of the crowd heard a powerful car horn honking, and what looked like a silvery Porsche firming into view where it had not been before. 

What no one except certain members of SHIELD knew was that Nick Fury's car had been customized by Sidney E. Levine, aka the Gaff, to be able to become almost absolutely transparent at the touch of a control device. Fury also had access to a body suit that would turn absolutely black, reflecting no light, for short periods of time. He was an invisible man in an invisible car, until he chose to make himself seen. 

Now, he did so. He twisted a dial on his belt, threw back his hood, and got out of his car, weapon in hand but pointed to the ground. He stood on the outskirts of the mob, and the word quickly passed among the latter about his presence. Fury waited for the crowd to settle down, to see what he was going to do next. So far, it was working. 

When enough of them were facing him, he said, "I hear you were lookin' for me. Wanna talk?" 

A guy in a headband said, "We don't wanna talk, Fury." Others echoed with, "No. No, we don't wanna talk. Hell, no!" 

Fury raised his arms. "So okay. Now you know where we hang out. Who told you that? I'd like to know." 

"The paper told us!" 

"Yeah, the underground!" "Yeah! Yeah, the paper!" 

"All right, all right, you guys," Fury said, in a louder voice, the kind that had carried over dozens of battlefields. "But didja ever stop 'n' think about where they got their information? Not too many people knew about our setup. Not many of 'em would talk to the press. Sure not to that rag that blew our cover. Think about it. The only ones that could've let them know where our ground HQ was situated was HYDRA, and AIM. Either one o' those sound like they got your best interests at heart?" 

Silence for a second. Then the guy with the megaphone raised it to his lips again. "It doesn't matter who told them. It just matters what is! We know your spiderweb lair now, Fury, and we're going to take it down!" 

"Oh, yeah?" said Fury, pointing his gloved forefinger. "Oh, YEAH? I wouldn't give ya even odds of gettin' twenty feet inside our front door! We've got defenses that can withstand anything short of a nuclear strike, and we're workin' on coverin' that. Or at least we were, before today. You think you're gonna get in with a beer bottle? Use your heads. You got a beef, tell me about it. I can talk. You want to fight, fight with me. I been fightin' since I knew how to make two fists. But don't take it out on these cops, or my men. They ain't out here to hurt you. An' we ain't no political tools, either. The only mandate we got is to stop the guys who want to conquer the world, and that means conquerin' you, too. We're in business to protect you. All of you." 

The murmuring died down a bit. It seemed that Fury's words were registering with the crowd, to some extent. The police and the men and women of SHIELD still stood ready. But, if the tension was still high, at least nobody was making a move. For the moment. 

"If you've got a legit gripe, I'm willin' to sit down with anybody you choose, 'n' talk about it," said Fury. "But this ain't gonna get you nowhere. SHIELD isn't here to fight with civilians. We keep our hands outta politics, except what we gotta do to get funding. Lots of you are here today on account of what me and your fathers did about thirty years ago against a guy named Hitler. We fought to give ya the right to protest. But we didn't fight to give you the right to hurt people. Am I right on that?" 

A girl in the midst of the crowd said, "Y'know, the pig's got a point." 

"A pig is a pig, Casey," snapped a guy beside her. "Don't forget it." 

"Let's just call the party over," Fury went on. "You made yer statement. You got on the news. You exposed a place that's been fightin' for your freedom for better'n ten years now. We'll have to find a new hidey-hole. So the score's on your side, now. You can go home, now. You showed up the old men. And you sure showed up me." 

Some of the crew on the edges of the crowd started to disperse. The others were considering what to do. The megaphone man was wondering how to phrase a retort. Val, Jimmy, Clay, and Dum Dum were still alert, but daring to breathe a little easier. 

Maybe the whole thing would blow off like a storm cloud that skirted a town. Maybe they'd all go home and see the news clips about it, and shake their heads over how close it had all been. Maybe... 

Then somebody leaned a long-barreled weapon over a surprised protestor's shoulder and, before anybody else could react, sent a ruby-red ray in the general direction of the SHIELD agents. 

It struck Clay Quatermain in the chest. He felt, for a second, a sensation of terrific heat. He smelled something sizzling. 

Before he could realize that it was his suit, and his flesh, he fell to the sidewalk in front of the barber shop. 

A silence for a nanosecond. 

Then a roar. 

Val screaming, "Clay! CLAY!" 

Jimmy Woo going for his stun gun, trying to hold back Dum Dum Dugan and failing. The Female Furies and the regular agents massing, going into defense mode, then attack. The protestors boiling forward in an angry and fearsome wave, in the sort of action in which you no longer have time to question, just hang on and hope you come out the other side. The cops with their helmets, plastic shields, tear gas, and billy clubs, knowing a second Chicago was on their necks and knowing there was nothing to be done about it. 

And the man with the laser ray sending another bolt of death towards all before him, before a black-suited man with an eyepatch reached him, grabbed the hot barrel of the gun with one hand, and smashed a right as hard as Gibraltar into the gunner's face. The man went down. 

Fury grabbed the gun by its handle. It was an AIM weapon. He'd seen its like before. 

Now, there was only the enemy around him. 

And the enemy were Americans. 

-M- 

The new X-Men came running to the mental summons of Professor Xavier. Alex remembered Scott telling him how it used to be in the old days, like a klaxon horn sounding through your brain. He realized now that Scott was not exaggerating. 

This time it was Havok, Polaris, Mimic, Banshee, and Sunfire who answered the call, all running, all in costume. They'd learned to dress in a hurry, and they didn't dare face Xavier with a boot off or a mask out of place. The old man might be trying to be more human, but he wasn't that human yet. 

They stood before him in the briefing room, and he faced them in his wheelchair, not blinking or smiling. 

"Magneto has reemerged," said Xavier, verbally, in clipped tones. "I knew this day would come, whether soon or late. It has come today. Worse, he has allied with him my stepbrother, the Juggernaut, whose physical power dwarfs his own. His other cohorts include Unus, whose force-field protects him from offensive blows, Mastermind, who can project mental illusions, and the Blob, who is virtually an immovable object. Together, they are a more powerful team than even my original X-Men ever faced. 

"But they threaten humanity, in Dallas. They have specifically demanded that the X-Men meet them in battle. Undoubtedly they want the original team. But their mantle has fallen...to us." 

Lorna Dane drew in a deep breath and let it out. She'd been afraid before, God knew...when she was taken prisoner by Mesmero and the robot Magneto, when she went on her first adventures with the team. But none of them had ever faced an enemy as powerful as Magneto, or the Juggernaut. 

She just hoped she wasn't showing too much fear. 

Xavier said, "This battle, if we choose to engage in it, will be our team's baptism of fire. And perhaps, of blood. I will not take it upon myself to order you to fight Magneto and his Brotherhood. I will only say that, with the other heroes of America fighting other menaces, this lot falls to us. I will ask for your answers individually." 

Banshee didn't wait for Xavier to complete the last word. "I'm goin', Professor. Never let it be said that a good Irishman ever backed away from a fight." 

Sunfire was the next to step forward. "You shame me, Sean Cassidy, in volunteering before myself. Send me where you will, Professor. Sunfire stands ready." 

Almost too quickly, Havok made his step. "If I'm supposed to be the field leader of this bunch, I should have been the first. But I'm going, Prof. Better believe it." 

Lorna took Alex's arm, and nodded, briefly. She said nothing. 

All eyes turned to the Mimic. He was breathing shallowly, holding in the effort not to duplicate powers as of yet. He noticed them looking at him, finally. 

"I'll go," he said. "I'll go." 

-M- 

In Dallas, the cops were practically stumped. 

Guns didn't work against Magneto and his crew. Blob, Unus, and Juggernaut were apparently bullet-proof. Also, the magnetic mutant himself could either freeze the bullets in mid-air, or just rip the guns out of the hands of police and beat them senseless with the barrels. Thankfully, he had not chosen to fire the guns back at the cops. Yet. 

They'd also tried using tear gas, but the stuff came in metal containers. Magneto had simply torn the canisters off the backs of the men who brought it in, turned the nozzles in their direction, and opened the valves. A bunch of blinded policemen had to stagger away from the scene. 

The National Guard had been called in, and were assembled at what they thought was a safe distance from the scene. But when you couldn't use metal against a foe, that pretty well ruled out the use of helicopters, tanks, jeeps, bazookas, grenades, guns, and the like. Sending guys in there to bop the mutants over the head with wooden clubs and bricks also seemed out of the question. 

Another problem, unexpected by the authorities, emerged. More than once, when strategies were being planned in City Hall, at the police commissioner's office, or simply at the scene of the disturbance, a strange bald man in a green costume and a domino mask appeared out of nowhere, was seen after a few minutes, and vanished before they could lay hands on him. The cops called the FBI, the FBI called agent Amos Fred Duncan of Department M, and Duncan told them it had to be a mutant called the Vanisher. 

That didn't really help, but it made them feel a little better. 

Dallas wasn't used to super-hero fights. The last time they'd experienced something like this was a race riot a couple of years back, when a policeman had shot a Mexican boy and La Raza Unida took to the streets to protest. As race riots went, it was small, but scarifying. This was nastier stuff. Some residents had flashbacks to the day of November 22, 1963, even though it hardly seemed to apply. 

So everybody was waiting for some super-heroes to arrive, and that included Magneto and the Brotherhood as well. 

"Don't like the idea of waitin' out here like a buncha sittin' ducks," groused the Blob. His huge bulk, clad only in a pair of trunks, almost made the pavement groan underneath him. 

Unus, in his red and black outfit, quirked an eyebrow. "S'matter, Blobsy? You forgot your sunscreen or something?" 

"Hell, Unus, I was raised in Texas," snapped the Blob. "Takes more'n this to burn me. I'm just tired of sittin' around, is all." 

Mastermind, in his brown suit and opera cape, mopped his brow with a scented handkerchief and sneered. "It is so heartening to see Factor Three in action again, as one coordinated unit...sweltering in this infernal Texas heat." 

A man beside him, clad in an outfit reminiscent of an ancient Egyptian monarch, scoffed. "Try the climes of Egypt sometime, and you will beg for the temperatures of Texas, Mastermind," said the Living Pharaoh. "As for me, the only thing that will matter is if the one called Havok appears." 

Merlin, sitting on a curb nearby, said, "These idiots are but lures for our real foes. When we destroy them, we will draw the wrath of the original X-Men. Those are the only ones about whom I give a fig." 

"You certainly seem sure of yourself, Merlin, for a man who had trouble coping with me the last time around," grinned Mesmero. The green-faced mutant had a fracas with Merlin not long ago, when both of them tried for revenge against Iceman, Angel, and the Beast, and both ended up in Riker's Island. Though Mesmero and Merlin were now part of the Brotherhood, neither of them had much love for the other. Merlin's eyes blazed as he began to stand up, facing Mesmero. The green man tensed, ready for action. 

Between them, a huge armored shape interposed itself. "Cut it out. NOW," said the Juggernaut. Reluctantly, the two evil mutants subsided. 

Then, before them, another stood, and all fell silent. "Do I hear dissension in the ranks, gentlemen?" 

"Just a difference of opinion, Magneto," said Mastermind. "Mesmero and Merlin were just reminiscing over old times. It's the heat, you know." 

In a flash, Magneto's hands were on the necks of both Mesmero and Merlin, and both of them looked terrified. He lifted them from the sidewalk, effortlessly. "Is there a problem that should be addressed?" 

"No. Of course not, Magneto," said Mesmero, desperately. 

"We're best of friends," said Merlin. "And of course you know we're loyal." 

The helmeted man looked up at them and held his silence for a moment, still holding them firmly. Then he said, "Once, Mastermind himself made such a statement. I will tell you what I told him then. Loyalty means nothing to me. I expect fear...and blind obedience." He removed his hands, and both remained in the air, a few feet off the ground. Then he undid his magnetic suspension, and both fell to the walk. 

Softly, Magneto walked away. The others looked in Mesmero's and Merlin's direction. Neither one was hurt, but they were both awed. The Juggernaut was the only one who trailed Magneto. Once they were apart from the others, Cain Marko said, "Way to go, Mags. I admire your style." 

Magneto, folding his arms and looking out at the army of police beyond the barricades, did not turn to face him. "I do not," he said. "But it is the only style the world will let me have." 

The Juggernaut looked puzzled. But he said nothing. 

For another few minutes, the two sides remained at a standoff. Then, in the background, Magneto heard Mesmero make a statement. "Incoming," he said. 

"From what direction?" asked Magneto. 

The telepath pointed towards the southwest. "That way," he said. "I can sense their thoughts, even though X must be shielding them from us." 

"Just so," Magneto muttered. "Once again, we play the game. We shall take the measure of Xavier's new defenders, and see what is to come. Remember your places, gentlemen. Remember your duty. And remember revenge." 

Nobody seemed to have to remind them of that. 

In a few moments, a VTOL craft with an X on its fuselage managed a landing in an open area nearby. Five figures emerged. Their credentials got them unimpeded through the sea of cops. Within minutes, Havok, Polaris, Banshee, Sunfire, and Mimic were within eyeshot of the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants. 

Alex Summers picked out the figure of the Living Pharaoh almost before he identified Magneto. If Havok went down, the Pharaoh would transform into the titanic Living Monolith. That possibility had to be avoided, if possible. 

So did death. 

Magneto raised his arms. "Welcome to your first battle with the Brotherhood," he said. "And your last." 

-M- 

PARKER 

Stark Labs was still in operation, and I put in a full day at work. But we kept up with the national news on the radio, and on TV in the break room. Seemed like everybody knew about the big fights breaking out over the country. Sure, it'd happened all the time like that in New York. But it'd never taken place in so many places across America, all at the same moment. 

Somebody had to be behind it. Nobody was sure who. The usual suspects were trotted out...Dr. Doom, the Mandarin, Magneto, even Kang the Conqueror...but no one could get a handle on who it really was, or what their objective was. 

Then the SHIELD riot happened downtown, and New York was right in the middle of it again. 

Gwen begged me to stay out of it, and I was halfway to obliging her. But I knew I couldn't. 

There'd be no way that Spider-Man could stay out of this, no matter how hard I tried. 

-M- 

The Owl had never met the huge man into whose quarters he was escorted. But everybody in his line of work had heard of him, and all of them feared him. 

"Sit," said the Kingpin, indicating a chair at the table opposite where he sat. 

The man in the large-caped outfit, his hair cut in a manner that suggested the shape of an owl's head, pulled out the chair and sat in it. He clasped his hands together in front of his face and gave the Kingpin a stare back as hard as the latter's. "Why did you summon me?" 

"Only because I know you must have received the same invitation as myself," the Kingpin replied. He was at least twice as large as a normal man, obese, but every last inch of it muscle. Even though he was a non-powered human, he was fully capable of trading blows with Spider-Man, and had done so often. It was an occupational hazard he encountered, from time to time, in running the New York underworld. 

The Owl had put together a syndicate that almost managed that, years before the Kingpin's emergence. Daredevil had brought that down, but the Owl still knew the ropes very well. "Well, then?" 

Unhurriedly, Wilson Fisk said, "I would assume you will lead some ragtag band of operatives to San Francisco, to attack your old enemy. Is this true?" 

Shrugging, the Owl said, "A world without Daredevil would be more pleasant, to my thinking. Why are you concerned?" 

"Only because I wish to impart information," said the Kingpin. "If you are successful, and you wish to return to your empire building, should you decide to remain in San Francisco, you will be unhindered. As fellow businessmen, we can appreciate the concept of spheres of influence and cooperation. Agreed?" 

"What are you going to be about, yourself, with all this hell breaking loose?" queried the Owl. 

"Agreed?" 

The Kingpin looked at the Owl steadily. His expression did not change. 

After a moment, the Owl said, "I think we can work something out." 

"It is already worked out, to use your phrase," said the Kingpin. "Your day, and that of the petty potentates such as the Big Man and the 'Crime-Master', are long done. The silent forces of this city now operate under my supervision. Their efficiency has climbed since I assumed command. Study my methods and you may profit. Attempt a coup, and this I promise you: at every meeting, my lieutenants will gaze upon a stuffed Owl." 

The Owl said nothing. 

"You may go," said the Kingpin. A door behind them opened and two gunsels came in, one at either side of the Owl. They escorted him out. 

The Kingpin contemplated the silence and semi-darkness, once the door had closed behind them. He would stay aloof from this undertaking. What he had learned of it convinced him that it was not a plot which he would find profitable, or even palatable. The collaboration with HYDRA had been a debacle. This would probably prove a full-scale disaster. 

But he wondered, inside himself, if anyone, even he, could pass unscathed through the Fire. 

To be continued... 


	16. Part 16:  Attack on Atlantis

FIRE! 

Part 16 

by DarkMark 

The Fantastic Four, the Avengers, the Inhumans, and the Asgardians barely had time for an hour meeting. Everyone seemed to be tired and tense. 

Nonetheless, the Inhumans were grateful for the chance to meet the Avengers again, after the part the latter had played in liberating the Great Refuge from Maximus in the recent Kree-Skrull War. Both the Attilans and the exiled Asgardians seemed curious about the other, since both seemed out of the norm for each other and for the humans they had encountered. But they saved the socializing for later. 

For now, they had business to do. 

"This isn't just the usual super-villain gang fighting," stated Reed Richards, in the FF's Baxter Building rec room. (It was one of the few there big enough to accommodate everybody.) "All of the ones we've encountered have been broken from Ryker's Island. All of them are striking too close together, too far from their usual haunts." 

"And none of what they're doing seems to make any sense," muttered Iron Man, his voice a bit distorted by the mechanism in his mouthpiece. 

Hogun spoke up. "Only if one looks at it not as a warrior," he said. "To us, their actions are transparent." 

Johnny Storm, his arms folded as he sat on a long couch, quirked an eyebrow. "Yeah? Okay, Mr. Mustache, what do you think they're trying to do?" 

The grim Asgardian gave the youth a stony and steady look. Mr. Fantastic stretched out one elongated arm towards Hogun. "On behalf of my team, Hogun, I'd like to apologize for that. Johnny didn't mean anything, he just shoots his mouth off sometimes." 

The Thing was already watching in case a brawl would break out, not an unheard-of thing in super-hero gatherings. Sue Richards had secretly shielded her brother with an invisible force field. Black Bolt also gave Hogun the eye. But, for his part, Hogun only said, "Have care, young one." 

Johnny sighed and put his hands on his knees. "All right, I'm sorry. It's just...this thing is getting in the way of other things I should be doing. No offense intended, Mr. Hogun." 

"Accepted," Hogun said. "But once again, take care. In my own realm, we would even now be at battle." 

Thor stood up and went to Hogun's side. "Be at peace, grim one. Thor has known the Human Torch for years, e'en fought beside him on many occasions. He may be a stripling, but he is a worthy warrior. Now, your thoughts?" 

"Stripling?" asked Johnny. 

"Shut up, Johnny," advised Sue. 

Hogun continued, "If an attacking army doth strike on many fronts, it can be seen as a feint to divide the defenders. Or, mayhap, to distract them from the place whereupon the enemy seeks to make true battle...swift, unexpected, and deadly in its stroke." 

"The one known as Hogun speaks wisely," noted Karnak. "Also, such actions wear the defending army down, so that when a fatal blow is prepared, the defender is much less able to deflect it." 

Captain America nodded. "So that the real prime mover of this thing can achieve an objective we haven't yet figured out. The trouble the X-Men are facing now would fit into that, too." 

Hawkeye shifted his feet. "What about that one, Cap? Should we go help those newbies, or leave them on their own?" 

His voice resounding through the room, the Vision said, "Perhaps we should simply monitor the situation for now. SHIELD has just been stricken, and we may be needed there. Also, neither our enemies nor the Fantastic Four's have yet been captured." 

The Scarlet Witch spoke up. "But Magneto is one of the strongest players in this game, as both my brother and I well know. When combined with the power of the Juggernaut, he might be a challenge not only to the X-Men, but to all of us, as well." 

Volstagg hefted a mug of beer, wrathfully. "I say, bring them on! Mortal, mutant, or troll from Travasaak, all take to their heels when valorous Volstagg doth take the battlefield." 

"Message noted, Volstagg," said Reed. "But for now, we're agreed there has to be a prime mover behind all this. Somebody who hasn't yet shown his hand. Correct?" 

"I'd tend to agree," said Ant-Man. "But who? Magneto's already emerged. We haven't seen the likes of Dr. Doom, or the Mandarin, or the Red Skull, or any of the other heavy hitters." 

"This overwhelming maleness depresses me," remarked the Wasp. "Do you realize there's not one single super-villainess that ranks with those guys? It's time women's lib hit the bad guy brigade." 

"Why?" asked Hildegarde. "Is not Amora the Enchantress enough? Also, in Asgard, we have the likes of Karnilla the Norn Queen. Surely they be opponents worthy." 

Sif smiled. "The Wasp was merely making a jest, Hildegarde. Midgard women as yet rarely command troops of super-mortals." 

"Ah," said the Valkyrie, nodding sagely. "My apologies, friend Wasp. When I learn more of mortal humor, I will laugh twice as much at your next jest." 

The Wasp smiled. "I think I like this gal." 

Medusa said, "Perhaps there will be a need for our Lady Liberators again," and smiled. She, the Wasp, the Scarlet Witch, and the Black Widow had once been entranced by the Enchantress, in the guise of the Valkyrie, into joining a female super-team hostile to males. 

"So what is our course of action now?" asked Quicksilver. "Divide our forces and search out the possible prime movers? Go to the aid of the X-Men? Help SHIELD?" 

"None of the above, just yet, I think," sighed Captain America. "We get what information we can from here, for now. And we sit and wait." 

After a moment, Mr. Fantastic nodded. "I suppose that's just about all we can do. SHIELD may be able to help us, if their branch offices are still intact." 

Black Bolt gave his sign of assent with both arms flung wide. The Inhumans were staying at the Baxter Building for the duration. Thor said, "My Asgardian brethren and sistren will be prepared, as usual. But I concur with Wanda and Pietro. The X-Men are in dire peril, and must be aided, if need be." 

"Well," rumbled Ben Grimm, "at least there's one good thing about it." 

"What would that be?" asked Gorgon, who had been silent, mostly, till then. 

The Thing looked at him. "So far, nobody's seen the Hulk." 

-M- 

Nobody could blame people in the Midwest for being suspicious of people in purple pants. But the trucker who picked up the guy thumbing a ride outside of Albuquerque saw clearly that the guy, who was no hippie, had on a pair of blue jeans and a short-sleeved blue shirt, with a canvas bag by his feet. Jerry Kostin had never passed by a man who needed a lift, if he didn't look like the kind of guy who would give you trouble. This guy was probably about 165 pounds dripping wet. Jerry was over 250, and had boxed in high school. He didn't expect trouble. 

The hell with the No Riders sign. Jerry slowed to a stop not far from the man and threw the passenger door open. "Where to, neighbor?" 

The guy, sunburned, sweaty, and out of breath, gasped, "'Bout as close to the desert as you can get me. The way you're headed, looks like. All right?" 

"Okay, but I ain't goin' in that far," said Jerry. "You want to ride on with me and get off where you need to, that's fine. 'Zat okay?" 

"Perfectly fair," said the man. "Thank you." He stepped up the silver step and plunked himself in the right-hand seat, settling the bag at his feet. "I really do appreciate this." 

"Good Lord said to watch out for other people in need," said Jerry. "My name's Jerry. Jerry Kostin." He revved the engine again and stuck out a hand to the hitchhiker. The guy took it. "What's yours?" 

"Roberts," said the man. "Bruce Roberts. Glad to see a man so generous this far along. It's been hours I've been on the road." 

The big rig started up again. Jerry was hauling steel this trip, and knew damned well he had time to make up for. "Where from?" 

"The northeast." 

The guy looked a bit hungry, too. "Slim Jims in the glove compartment. Look like you need 'em worse 'n' I do." 

"Thanks again." The guy opened the glove box, took out several packages of Slim Jims, tore them open with his teeth, and began wolfing them. To himself, Jerry smiled. 

For the next couple of hours, they made small talk. Jerry couldn't get much out of the man, really. He said he was a salesman, but Jerry doubted it. However, the guy didn't look to be packing anything, unless he had a gun stashed in that bag. From the looks of him, the guy didn't appear to be a bad 'un. Anyway, he looked like he was just about to drift off to sleep, and that was fine by Jerry. Once they got to the point where Roberts wanted to leave, he'd wake him up, let him off, and that'd be the end of it. 

Then the guy sat up straight, so fast he had to put his hands on the dashboard. He looked tense, almost scared. Jerry's eyes shifted from the man to the road to the man again. 

Trouble. 

"Strange," said the man. "What do you want with me, Strange? What the devil do you need?" 

Just great. The guy was either having a nightmare with open eyes, or he was on drugs. Time to stop the truck and shove him out. Jerry began to hit the air brakes. Luckily enough, there was plenty of shoulder to park on. 

"Look, mister, I don't know what's coming over you, but I can't afford that kind of grief," said Jerry. "I'm afraid I'm gonna have to let you go." 

The guy didn't even look like he took notice of Jerry. Well, maybe that shouldn't be surprising. But he was still raving, and it began to scare the trucker. 

"Strange, I can't help you. This is my life! I need to see Betty. I need to get my life back in order. I don't care about Namor. I don't...I..." 

Jerry reached out an arm to grab the guy by the shoulder. 

The shoulder began to grow. 

The trucker snatched his hand back as if he'd touched a flaming meteorite. He crammed himself against the left door of the truck cab. But he didn't seem able to find the door handle, because he couldn't tear his eyes away from the man beside him. 

The man who was changing color and shape. 

The small man was putting on mass at an incredible rate. So quickly did he grow that his shirt popped all the buttons, then ripped apart at the back and around the shoulders. The man's shoes almost exploded from his expanding feet. Luckily, his pants seemed to stretch enough, but the knees popped out, and somehow, their color changed from brown to purple. 

The man's color was changing from normal Caucasian flesh-tone to...God help him...green. 

He was turning green and bulking up so fast that his shoulders and head abutted the roof of the cab and then, impossibly, burst through it. His mighty jade-colored arms tore a hole through the roof big enough to admit his body. Thankfully, Jerry had shrunk far enough against the side door that he wasn't touching his transformed hitchhiker. 

Said hitchhiker was somehow gathering himself in the seat, then thrusting himself up, impossibly, from a sitting position by the power of his legs. The truck gave a mighty lurch under him. Restraints on the load in back shattered and steel went clanking all over the road shoulder. From the feel of things, the shocks were long gone, too. 

The green man sprang upward as if shot from a vertical cannon. 

Jerry, gasping, leaned over and looked through the hole in the cab, half expecting the horrific face in green to lean back and leer at him. But no, all he saw was the huge figure, hurtling into the sky, arcing away in a huge leap that took him beyond the horizon. A few seconds later, he heard a great THOOM. 

He didn't see the man again, and was thanking the Lord for it. 

And when he could manage to think about it, he knew he had another problem. 

How do you convince your boss that your load of steel was upset because you picked up the Hulk? 

-M- 

Prince Namor wasn't sure how his enemies had all gotten together for a sortie against Atlantis, but that didn't matter just then. What mattered was trying to protect the Realm from the warships of Attuma, joined with what appeared to be a collection of his more recent foes. It was hard to make all of them out...not all were attacking him directly...but Orka, the human killer whale, was so large it was hard to miss him. 

One of the ships, its guns blasting havoc, scattering warriors and civilians alike, was flying the banner of Byrrah. Damn him. The traitor had been Namor's enemy since childhood, and had never ceased trying to usurp the throne, even if he had to conquer Atlantis to do it. 

And, if he didn't mistake things, there was a sub-ship with an air-filled dome atop it. The thing had some sort of force-beam projecting from its underside, like a huge energy knife, bisecting whatever it contacted. Warships, buildings, and sometimes, regrettably, people. Who in the name of Hades' Depths was commanding that ship? The Sub-Mariner had made many enemies on land, to be sure. But putting a name to the one in that craft would have to come later, after he stopped it. 

Beside him, a slim form in a green swimsuit shot past. He grabbed her, just in time, by the winged ankle. "No, Namorita," he barked. 

The girl thrashed in the water. "Leggo, cousin! This is my fight, too!" 

"Not against that ship, it is not," said Namor, dragging her back. "This is the province of Namor alone. You have strength, girl, but not to compare with mine own." 

She kicked at him with a bare foot. "I'm an Atlantean, too, even if I haven't been here very long. I'm going to fight for the Realm." 

"You are going to wait here voluntarily, or unconscious," the prince retorted, evenly. "Make your decision now." 

The blonde teenage hybrid girl fumed. "You..." 

Namor raised his hand. 

"All right," she said. "All right!" 

The Sub-Mariner let go of her and pushed himself forward in a stroke so powerful it made Namorita gape. The soldiers of Atlantis were manning defense guns, engaging enemy soldiers in battle, propelling warships against the foe. All too often, clouds of blood were enmurking the waters about them. 

She watched her mighty cousin streak forward to the ship with the mighty knife. It was turning its blade-projector upward, trying to catch him in its deadly stream. Namor flitted about it, no matter which way the deadly ray turned, and sent his powerful body against the craft, fists first. 

A painful, mighty energy coursed through the hull. Namor merely gritted his teeth and smashed through it. Metal flew everywhere. For an instant, he flashed back on the many times he did this over thirty years ago, against Nazi U-Boats. The shape of the craft changed, but the result was still the same. 

There was only one occupant of the ship. A surface man in a diving suit of his own design, cowering at the controls, brandishing a hand-weapon of some kind. Namor recognized the bearded face within the helmet. 

"Dorcas," he snarled. "Doctor Dorcas!" 

He had encountered the surface-man savant several times. It was Dorcas, the renegade scientist, who had modified man and Atlantean into two of his direst foes, Tiger Shark and Orka. He owed the man much vengeance already. And if he were allied with the likes of Attuma... 

Dorcas fired. The Sub-Mariner dodged the deadly stream with ease, grabbed the weapon, and crushed its barrel in one hand. With his other, he slammed a great open-handed blow to Dorcas's chest. The surface-man caromed off the inner wall of his ship, hit the floor, and lay there stunned. Namor went to the ship's control panel and ripped it out of its housing, throwing it to the floor and stepping on it. The knife-ray ceased, even though the ship blundered on. 

Namor gathered himself, thrust his feet against the floor of the chamber, and leapt upward through the hole he had made in the ship. It was headed for some outlying buildings of Atlantis. With a few quick strokes, he put himself at the tail section of the craft. The Sub-Mariner grasped the side of the ship's rear compartment, dug his very fingers into the metal, and pushed. His powerful legs and ankle wings worked against the water. He strove to turn the thing, but it was resistant. 

A second pair of hands, some feet distant from his, contacted the metal and pushed in the same direction. 

"Namorita!" he cried. 

Nita looked at him, grinning wickedly. "You didn't say I couldn't help," she said. 

"Your punishment will be decided later," he grunted. 

"What about now?" 

"Be silent and push!" 

The Dorcas ship began to turn, ever so slightly. Namor hoped his younger cousin would follow his lead perfectly, as he had a definite target to aim for. He glanced at the girl. Her face was showing the strain. Evidently she hadn't bargained on this being such a hard task. But if she wanted to aid the warriors of Atlantis, she must needs get accustomed to such things. 

"Pull Dorcas from the ship," he grated. 

"What?" 

"There is a surface man within. Pull him free and guard him. We must question him later. Go!" 

His tone brooked no argument. The girl pulled herself up along the hull of the craft, guiding herself by placing palms and bare footsoles against it, until she clambered through the hole Namor had made in it. There was, indeed, a surface man within, and he looked dead to the world. She grabbed him under the arms and swam backwards out through the hole, taking him down to the ocean floor, where she left him. Then she started back towards the ship. 

In mid-swim, she stopped. Namor had said to guard him. Even if he just meant it to get him out of his close-clipped hair, that was an order from a prince of the blood. She jackknifed in the water, headed back to the fallen scientist in the diving suit, and stood over him. 

The Sub-Mariner himself gave one last mighty shove, and Dorcas's ship sped in the direction he had turned it. Its course bisected that of one of Attuma's warships, colliding with it. The enemy craft was partially demolished, its fragments wrecking another warship it was escorting. Another blow for the Empire, thought Namor with grim satisfaction. But many more such blows had to be struck, before the day was one. 

How many times had Atlantis been thus besieged? How many times had its people suffered attack from Attuma's barbarians, or would-be conquerors from the surface? It was a miracle that the population of the city stood as strong as it did. Things would have to change. Even if alliances had to be made with the surface men, something needs must be done. The Atlantean people deserved a future without war, if such were possible. 

Several seconds later, Namor regretted his reverie. But that was only after he felt the impact of a fist crashing into his neck and head from behind. 

His forward flight wasn't stopped until he hit the hardness of the ocean floor, actually cracking part of it with his impact. The pain was palpable. Lifting himself up from the rocky sub-sea plain, Namor tried to banish the stars from his vision and, turning his head, wondered which one of his enemies had struck him. 

The assailant was heading for him with swimming strokes as powerful as his own. He wore a costume of orange and grey stripes, with a grey mask and a huge artificial fin protruding from his back and the back of his mask. The man's open mouth revealed two rows of pointed teeth. 

"Hi, there, Subby," said Tiger Shark. "Just like old home week, ain't it?" 

He plowed into Namor with the force of a comet. The fight, vicious in its intensity, began in earnest. 

-M- 

Peter Parker turned off the TV. Gwen, in a red shirt, faded blue jeans, and an apron, stood in the doorway to the dining room and waited for him to say something. 

"So that's where SHIELD had its ground base," Peter said. "I must've swung over it a million times, and never suspected. Guess my spider sense just wasn't looking for it." 

Gwen crossed her arms and took a deep breath. "Peter. I want you to promise me something." 

"What, Gwen?" 

"I want you to keep out of this thing, whatever it is." 

He stood up and faced her. "That's not in the cards, Gwen. I'm not directly involved, but if all hell breaks loose in this city—" 

"If it does, they've got the Avengers, the Fantastic Four, and God knows who all to take care of it. But I've only got one of you!" 

"Well, all right! The city's only got one of me, too, and I've got a responsibility to help protect it. That's what I do, Gwen. You've known that for some time, now." 

"Oh, I know about it, Peter. I can't even sleep with Sominex when I know Doc Ock's on the loose and you're after him. How long do you think I can stand this? You're a father, Peter, for God's sake. You're my husband. You're not just Spider-Man anymore!" 

Peter sighed. "All right. All right, Gwen. What do you want me to do? If Ock and his pals are tearing hell out of Manhattan, screaming for Spider-Man to come, what do you expect me to do? If they're threatening lives..." 

"Leave it to the police." 

"The cops can't always handle it." 

"Leave it to the other heroes." 

"They're not always around." 

"Then why should you be?" 

"Because I'm you're friendly, neighborhood..." 

She slapped him. 

Pete looked at her, dumbfounded. His hand went to his cheek, touching the stinging surface. Certainly, he'd taken blows that would dwarf that many times over, in impact. But somehow, none of them hurt quite so much as that one. 

"Gwen," he said, quietly. 

Her voice was trembling. "Peter," she said. "Come here. Come with me." She took his arm and guided him to a back room. 

It was the room they'd fixed up for the baby. There, within the confines of a crib, lay May Juliet Parker, not very large, not very old, and not very awake. She was in a pink jumper, covered partly by a blue blanket, and a thumb was crammed in her mouth. She looked very peaceful. That, by contrast, was a relief. 

"That's what you'll be leaving behind if you get killed, Peter," said Gwen, shakily. "That's what I'll have to raise on my own, if you die. And I don't want her to not have a daddy. Or me not..." 

Peter Parker took her up in his arms. "Gwen. Gwen, it's okay. Just hold onto me. It's all okay. Everything will be all right." 

"Not if one of those idiots in a costume murders you." 

He said nothing. 

"You've talked about power, and great responsibility," she said. "Well, what about the responsibility you have towards May and me? Don't we matter as much as a stranger, Peter? Don't we?" 

"You matter more than any other people in the world," he replied. "You know that." 

"Then don't we matter enough for you to take that stupid red and blue suit and store it away forever?" 

He didn't say anything. 

"Well?" 

"All right, Gwen," he said. 

"All right, what?" 

"Once this present mess is over with, if you still want me to give it up, I'll consider it. That's what." 

"That's not good enough, Peter." 

"Well, what the heck do you want me to say?" 

"You don't already know?" 

He tried to speak. There were words he could form, words that would please her, words that might even save their marriage. Lord knew, he could never face life without Gwen. Not after what they'd been to each other for the past couple of years. 

Peter Parker remembered the time that, in order to reach a vial of medicine needed to save Aunt May's life, he had to lift an industrial unit the size of a locomotive off his back. Compared to what he had to do now, that seemed like lifting a Dixie cup. 

The phone rang. 

It rang three times. Finally, on the fourth ring, Peter said, "Would you get that, Gwen?" 

She looked at him. "Peter." 

"Gwen, would you please, please get that?" 

She looked at him in frustration and walked out of the room. The phone was in the living room. Gwen went to it, pulled the receiver off the cradle, and tried to put the pain out of her voice. "Hello?" 

"Gwen?" A familiar voice on the other end of the line. Despite herself, Gwen smiled. 

"Mary Jane," she said. "How are you, Red?" 

"Wish I could say still scootin' and shootin' for the stars, honey," said the girl who had once been her rival for Peter. "But that ain't exactly the way I'm feelin'. You got a minute?" 

"What's the problem?" 

"It's Harry's dad," said MJ. Gwen raised her eyebrows. Harry Osborn had been seeing MJ a long time now, probably living with her, for all Gwen knew. She'd met Harry's father more than a few times. He seemed like a regular guy, as much as any chemical company CEO could be. 

MJ was still speaking. "It's like, he's been gone for a couple of days now. Missed all his meetings, isn't at his home, not at the other places he keeps. He's a missing person, Gwen. You and Peter haven't seen him lately, have you?" 

"No," said Gwen. "No, I haven't, MJ. Do you think he's in danger?" 

"Don't know," said Mary Jane Watson. "But Gwen...I'm more worried about Harry now. You know?" 

"He isn't..." 

"No," said MJ. "Not as far as I can tell, and I think I'd be able to tell." Both knew what Gwen had implied. Recently, Harry Osborn had experimented with uppers and downers. He'd possibly even dropped acid. The man had straightened out after an unexplained incident, but all of them had worried about him as a result of it. 

"Well, that's good," was all Gwen was able to say. "You want us to do anything?" 

"Not much you can, I guess," MJ responded. "Just...well, if I need somebody to talk to, would it be okay if I called you or even Pete? You've always been friends, you know." 

"Oh, yeah. Sure." 

"How's that little girl of yours? She still a darling?" 

"Oh, definitely. In a year or so, you'll be able to teach her go-go dancing." 

"There ya go. But Gwen...you got any prayers left lying around, save one of 'em for me, Harry, and Norm, wouldja? We could sure use it." 

"I will, MJ. Count on it. You need anything else?" 

"If I do, Gwenny, I'll tell you. How's Pete?" 

"Oh, you know. Same old same old." 

"That's good. He's the best guy for same old I know of. Hey, Gwen. Thanks a bunch, okay? I really appreciate it." 

"It's okay, girlfriend. Just keep me posted on the Norman situation, will you? I know Peter would want to know, too. Harry's his friend." 

"Will do. Over and out, gal." 

"Goodbye." Gwen hung up the phone, turned towards the back room. "Peter? That was MJ. She said that Harry's dad's missing. Peter?" 

No answer. 

She rushed to the back room. Only May was there, still half-asleep. 

Gwen rushed upstairs to the attic. The window facing the alley was shut. 

Webbed shut. 

She went to her knees and began to cry. 

-M- 

Matt Murdock was finding life more to his liking in San Francisco than in New York City. True, he'd lost a lover in Karen Page. But he'd found another one, much more suited to his lifestyle, in Natasha Romanoff. 

She was a Russian super-spy who'd been trained to be a costumed heroine before she defected to the West. He was a lawyer who, blinded by a radioactive canister that fell across his eyes when he was a boy, had been endowed with compensating super-senses, a radar sense, highly developed normal strength, and a sense of balance and agility second to none. They had fallen together some months back while fighting the machinations of the mysterious Mr. Kline. Both of them had left long-time lovers, and both were ready for a change of life. 

So they both packed up and went to San Francisco, where the cover story was that Madame Natasha, whose identity as the Widow was publicly known, was living with both lawyer Matt Murdock and superhero Daredevil, on separate floors of a two-story home. It had worked out excellently for both of them, or all three of them, depending on how you wanted to see it. Natasha's guardian, chauffeur, and crime-fighting aide, Ivan Petrovitch, had come with them to keep an eye on his charge, as he had been doing since her childhood. That was the way things stood. 

It felt good to be out of New York, anyway. No super-heroes to trip over (except for the Inhumans, who had a short stint in the Bay Area, though DD and the Widow hadn't met them), a more laid-back atmosphere, fog and chilly temps, streets that canted up so high you practically had to be a super-hero to walk them, Fisherman's Wharf, the Golden Gate Bridge... 

...well, it was a package both of them liked. 

Since moving out West, they'd had to deal with Electro, Killgrave, a third Mr. Fear (who'd promptly died on them), and, most recently, Stilt-Man. So the two of them figured that they'd still keep busy, albeit much less busy than they were in the Big Apple. Super-heroes were like a magnet to super-villains. In between there, Matt had flown out to Las Vegas to defend the Hulk, of all people. The trial didn't settle much, but he figured it'd look good on his resume. 

It was early afternoon and Matt was pounding a Braille typewriter at a wpm rate so fast that Natasha swore she couldn't hear a pause between the keystrokes. The Widow was walking through the opened glass door adjoining the pool area, dressed only in a dark blue bikini, toweling herself off as rapidly as she could. He turned her way and smiled. 

"Matt," she asked, "does it make any difference to you whether I'm clothed or half-naked?" 

"Oh, yes," he assured her, grinning fiendishly. 

"Well, how?" She draped the towel across her shoulders. "It's not as though you could..." 

He leaned back in his office chair, clasping his hands behind his head and stretching. "'Tasha, it has to do with the difference in the way you smell, the way you sound, the water droplets sliding off your skin and your suit...and that's your blue one, isn't it?" 

She did a slight double-take. "How did you know?" 

"It smells different than your red one," he said. "Also, the pattern of your bare feet when they hit the concrete or the carpet. They sound much different wet than dry. And..." 

"I give up." Natasha went over to him and embraced him from behind. "Come on. Let's go upstairs." 

"But DD lives upstairs." 

"Yes, but Ivan is downstairs and therefore we want to be upstairs." 

"You're so noisy, what difference does it make, 'Tasha?" 

"Because I'm only noisy to you. A turtle would be noisy to you. Come, Matt." 

He stood and grabbed the Widow in both arms, raising her so she was parallel to the floor. She giggled. "You're getting your shirt wet," she said. 

"Who cares? I'm about to do Clark Gable's scene from Gone With the Wind. You turned Hawkeye on, now you're about to turn me on." 

She was about to ask him how he knew what the movie scene looked like as he headed for the stairway. 

"Matt," said a heavily accented voice. 

He stopped, still holding Natasha. Both of them turned their heads towards Ivan Petrovitch. 

The big Russian, six feet seven inches in height, stood there in grey pants and a blue checked shirt, open at the collar. For all that, you could see the Cossack in him. He was a massive man, the kind that had withstood Hitler's legions at Stalingrad, and there was always an edge of threat about him. It would be unleashed against anyone who threatened the Widow. Matt Murdock was glad Ivan was on his side. 

"What's up, Ivan?" asked Murdock. 

"A lot of hell," said Ivan. "Down at Golden Gate Park. From what I hear, the Owl's back, and he's brought help with him." 

Natasha extricated herself from Matt's arms and stepped to the floor. "What kind of help?" 

"From what I could see on the TV, lots of guys with costumes. One big hairy idiot with horns." 

Murdock's lips tightened. "Man-Bull," he said. His old foe was far from his usual haunts. 

"If you say so," said Ivan. "They're holding off the cops down there, but they've got some hostages. Guess who they wanted to see?" 

Murdock and Natasha were sprinting for the upstairs bedroom. Ivan knew what they'd be wearing once they came down. He went to his room to check his shoulder holster and .357 Magnum. For an American gun, he didn't mind it at all. 

This time, he figured he'd better be packing. 

-M-   


"I just wanna know one thing," groused the Blob as he turned a cop car on its side, placing it between two others for a fortification. 

"Given your scope, Blob, that's not surprising," said Mastermind, smoothly. "But what is it, specifically?" 

"We're here for the X-Men. Right?" 

"Ostensibly." 

"And the X-Men are in New York. Right?" 

"Arguably." 

"So why in the hell are we here in Dallas? Huh?" 

Mastermind had already shed his operatic cape and rolled up his sleeves, due to the Texas heat. "Very simple. Think of all the heroes in New York as part of one vast army. If all of us engage them there, mutants and normals as well, we'd end up with one tremendous battle. But there'd still be a chance we could lose it." 

"Not with me on your side!" The Blob pointed a meaty thumb at his own chest. "I can do more than make people see things, wise guy." 

The mustached illusionist hid his wrath behind a smile. "But for all that, both you and I have lost to Xavier's men before. However, if our troops separate, and force the foe to meet us on different fronts, that divides their forces as well. We outnumber them. There are many more super-villains than there are super-heroes. It's just that we've never been so organized before." 

"Like a war," said the Blob. 

"Precisely, Blob," said Mastermind. "Precisely." 

Unus walked up behind them. "Only problem is, most of us don't give a damn about the new crop of X-Men. It won't be as much fun stomping them as it would be doing the old team." 

"As a popular song recently had it, 'You can't always get what you want–'" Mastermind began. 

"'But if ya try sometime, you might find you get what ya need!'" finished the Juggernaut, who had just arrived. "Yeah, I'm an old Stones fan, too." 

Mastermind quietly hoped that, after the battle was done, he could retire to some proper villa and never have to associate with these people again, mutant or not. But he held his peace, and kept smiling. 

The Vanisher appeared, with not so much as a pop of sound. "I'm getting antsy," he proclaimed. "When are those brats going to get here?" 

"I don't know," Mastermind spat. "Why don't you call up Charles Xavier and ask him? I'll give you the number if you want it." 

The Blob smacked his huge hands together. "Maybe the brats won't come. Maybe they're just too damn scared. If I was them, I would be. They ain't never faced the likes of us before. No way." 

"Fred's got a point," said Unus. "We might be expecting too much. Xavier might not want to risk his team on us. Let's face it, we're out of their home court, we've got a lot more firepower than they do, and..." 

A second afterward, Unus was holding his ears in pain from the effect of a terrific sonic boom. The rest of them fared much the same. Then fireballs rained among them, impacting on the ground, splattering napalm-like fire, and forcing the lot of them to scatter painfully. 

A terrific plasma burst smashed into the Blob and Juggernaut, crunching them into the ground. Following that, the Juggernaut felt himself picked up by his helmet, almost by magic, lifted off the ground, and driven head-first into the soil. Then he was spun around like a top, drilling himself headfirst into the turf. He swore, put out his arms, and managed to lever himself back on his feet. 

When he stood upright again, he saw five figures heading for them at full throttle. He didn't know a one of them, but he knew who they were. 

The X-Men had arrived. 

-M- 

Nick Fury scratched his forehead with one thumbnail as he sat at the bedside of Clay Quatermain in the SHIELD heli-carrier. Thankfully, the kid seemed to have stabilized. But it was doubtful Clay would ever be fit for field ops again. He still might end up losing an arm. 

That was better than losing his life. 

They'd tried to interrogate the punk who shot him. The guy had died of a cerebral hemmorhage about as soon as they'd gotten him into custody. A medical exam hadn't turned up enough of a cause. On a hunch, Fury had SHIELD's ESP division do a quick scan. They told him that the guy had apparently been prepped by a telepath, and killed when his job was done. Nick didn't have to think to hard to figure out who it had been, most likely. 

Mentallo. The renegade esper who had darn near shut down SHIELD with only one ally, the Fixer. They'd had him under wraps, but he'd been broken out of his cell in some way that nobody, not even the ESP boys, could figure. The three telepaths on SHIELD's side told him that Mentallo couldn't do that to anybody, just somebody who he'd personally prepped. But that didn't cheer Fury up much. 

Clay was still out, thanks to the drugs they were pumping through his system, and he had tubes up every which way into his body. Anything that medical science could do for him was being done. But it still reminded Fury of the MASH units he'd been to in the Big One, and he knew how seldom soldiers who went into one came out to do any more fighting. 

The million-dollar wound. That's what they used to call it, and Clay had gotten his. 

Fury sensed the door opening almost before it threw a sliver of light into the room. 

"Nick," said the Oriental standing there. "It's me." 

"H'lo, Woo," said Fury, his five-o'-clock shadow showing as much as it ever did on any battlefield. 

Jimmy Woo walked closer. "I'm sorry," he said. "He was a good man." 

"Still is," said Nick. "He ain't dead. But that's more'n I'll say for the guy who's behind this, once I find him." 

"So you know who it was?" 

"Not a clue," said Fury. "It was an AIM weapon, so they're connected. But AIM sells to a lot of people. The guy was a radical, not an enemy agent. But...hell." 

Jimmy lay a hand on Nick's shoulder. He'd been in the FBI in the 1950's, and had joined SHIELD as a result of a battle which pitted Fury against Woo's personal nemesis. "We'll find out," said Jimmy. "If anybody can learn who it was, SHIELD can." 

"What'd you find out, Woo?" 

"Some," admitted Jimmy. "Apparently the Claw, the real Claw, had some sort of meeting with an unidentified individual, somebody strong enough to call him out." 

"Doom?" 

"Don't know. Most likely, the Mandarin. The Si-Fan don't operate in Communist China much anymore. As far as I know, he's still there. But that proves he's in this thing, if only peripherally." 

"If only," said Fury. Jimmy had fought the Yellow Claw when he first threatened America, way back when. In 1967, Fury, Woo, and SHIELD had battled what appeared to be the Yellow Claw, but it was only a robot. Since then, Jimmy had learned that the Claw was still in China, which is what Fury had sent him to find out. Apparently Woo's love, Suwaan, who was the Claw's daughter, was also alive. But she was still with the Claw. 

"AIM's got a hand in this too," said Fury, as much to himself as to Jimmy Woo. "Mentallo's left his prints on it. It's all hooked into this hell that's breakin' loose all over the country. But we're just seein' the branches. Who's got the tap root?" 

Jimmy shook his head. "I wish I knew, Nick. I only wish I knew." 

"We've got to know, dammit!" Fury grabbed Woo by the shoulders. "Our ground installation's been exposed. We're hauling stuff out of there in guarded trucks from Stark. This is happenin' to SHIELD, Woo. To SHIELD!" 

Gently, Jimmy took Fury's hands off his shoulders. "I know it, Nick. But...this won't help the situation. And it won't help Clay." 

"Yeah," said Fury, turning away. "Yeah." He went to the wall and faced it, taking a cheroot from his belt pack and lighting it. He puffed on it a couple of times. "Did I ever tell you about a guy named Junior Juniper, Woo?" 

"Don't think so, Nick." 

"He was the first casualty we had in the Howling Commandoes. He caught a Kraut round in the chest. He was the youngest kid we ever had on the squad, and he looked up to me like I was his daddy. Maybe I thought I was, too, in a way. Maybe that's why he got it. I dunno. 

"I've seen a lot more men die, since then. A lot nastier ways, too. I even had a woman I love die on me. Pam Hawley. I'll never forget her. But you never forget the first of your men to die. You never forgive it, either." 

He turned to face Jimmy Woo, and the Asian didn't like a bit of what he saw in Fury's eyes. 

"I want the man who did this to Clay Quatermain, Woo. I want him brought to me. And you're gonna help find him. Understood?" 

"Understood, Colonel," said Woo, quietly. 

"Go see Sitwell. He'll bring you up to date. We ain't got much time, from what I figure. But this sonofabitch is gonna learn what it means to have SHIELD's foot on his slimy little neck. 

"I'll show him, Woo. I'll really, really show him." 

-M- 

PARKER 

All right, kids, I'll admit it. I was a rat. But sometimes you find that you have to be, even if you've got spider's blood mixed in your veins. 

Or maybe that's just me rationalizing. I know it happened twenty-eight years ago, but I still can't stop making excuses for it. I just didn't want to stop being Spider-Man. Not just because there was a lot of my old sparring partners loose out there, but because I liked it. At least I did back then. 

But I didn't love it as much as I loved Gwen. I knew what I'd have to say to her if I stayed there. That's why I cut out. As it happened, well, it had other implications. I'll tell you about it pretty soon. That's later on in the story. 

I knew what was going on was a lot bigger than me. And who could I turn to for help, or to give a hand to myself? Daredevil was the guy I trusted most of all. But he was out there in San Francisco. The FF and Avengers were busy as blazes, and they weren't around the Baxter Building or Avengers Mansion when I went calling. Didn't have any idea where to find the X-Men, and there weren't that many independent heroes back then. Me and a few others, that was it. 

But there was one bunch still in New York. Or at least above it. 

It wasn't the first time I'd swung into J. Jonah's office window. I did that so often he put a sticker in it reading, OFF-LIMITS TO WEB-HEADED FREAKS. I never paid much mind to it and he knew I wouldn't. So when I swung in and paid my respects, I knew I'd have to wait five minutes before he stopped yelling at me long enough to be heard. When he paused for breath, I told him, "I need a favor from you, Jonah." 

He told me exactly where I could expect a favor from him, and to go there. 

I just told him, "Fine. I'll take it to Barney Bushkin." I made like I was going out the window. 

Jonah darned near grabbed me by the foot. Bushkin was his main competitor, down at the New York GLOBE. If there was anybody he hated more than me, it was Bushkin. If I had something, no matter how bad ol' prune-face had it in for Spidey, he knew the value of a scoop. 

So I told him that I needed to get hold of Nick Fury at SHIELD, and that what had happened to them was probably linked to what was happening all over the country. Even to that run-in I had with Ock and his boys. I furthermore told Jameson that, if I found anything out about the cause of what was going down, I'd give him exclusive rights to what I knew. Pinky square. 

He was looking thoughtful. When Jameson was out of rant mode, he was a pretty darned good newspaperman. He said, "For sure?" 

I told him, "For sure." 

"You don't go to Bushkin under any circumstances?", he said. 

I said, "Why would I deal with the competition? We're such good pals, after all." 

After a long pause, he went to his typewriter, right there in the office, and said, "Give it to me straight. If you're lying, what I've printed in the past about you will look like a McGuffey's Reader compared to what I'll do." 

But I wasn't lying. He took my statement, and he printed it. 

A good thing he did, too. 

None of us were very far away from the Fire. 

To be continued...   



	17. Part 17:  A Meeting of Mutants

FIRE! 

Part 17 

by DarkMark 

Like all human beings, no matter what their power, the Silver Surfer needed to sleep. He usually took his rest in the upper reaches of Earth's atmosphere, not far from Galactus's barrier. He slept lying on his board, which hung in the sky as immobile as if imbedded in a sea of crystal. 

Somebody woke him up. 

Surfer.> 

The silver-skinned being stirred to awareness. His enhanced senses told him the nature of the presence beside him before he ever opened his eyes. 

"Strange," he said. 

The ghostly ectoplasmic form of Earth's Sorceror Supreme floated near his feet, at the end of his board. The Defenders have need of you,> Dr. Strange sent. 

"Let them continue to need," the Surfer said, more with his mind than with his mouth, as sound would hardly carry in these near-airless reaches. 

Namor's Atlantis is being attacked,> Strange replied. We have been asked to aid. I have already summoned the Hulk.> 

"Good. He will be sufficient." The Surfer hardly raised his head. 

If a soul-projection can be said to express frustration, Dr. Strange's did so now. We need you, Norrin. You must enable the Hulk and myself to breathe underwater, to withstand its pressures. We need your hand in the battle, to save our comrade and his nation.> 

The Surfer finally sat up. "Strange. On practically every continent of this globe, there is war. Earthmen wasting other Earthmen's lives, more casually than they would slay brutes of the field. More often than that, they simply die of starvation. Whenever I try to help, they chase me away as if I was a demon from Hell. If I could, I would heal, and that is how I would spend my days. But the only time anyone ever asks for my help is when they want me to fight." 

And what would you have me do, Norrin Radd? Tell the Sub-Mariner that Atlantis must die because the Silver Surfer is too uncaring to help a friend? That his pose of piety is only a cover for his cowardice about letting himself care?> 

Silver-covered eyes seemed to blaze hatred at the ghost-form. 

"Blast you, Strange," the Surfer said. "Blast the day I heard of you and your Defenders." 

Then you will come?> 

"I will. God of Zenn-La help me, I will." 

Strange's ectoplasmic form whisked back through the rarefied air towards his Greenwich Village apartment in a city and a continent and a planet far below. The Silver Surfer stood on his board and, as if balancing on a wave, rode cosmic force downward towards him. 

If Strange was smiling, the Surfer couldn't see from his viewpoint. 

-M- 

The new X-Men were hitting the Brotherhood and hitting them hard. That was the only way they'd have a prayer of surviving. It was baptism of fire time. 

Havok was blasting away at Juggernaut with the full power of his white-circle plasma bursts. He was smart enough to zap the ground under his massive foe's feet first, causing Cain Marko to fall on his chest. After that, he spun the Juggernaut around for a bit with his blasts. But that only lasted for a few seconds, as Marko grabbed handfuls of concrete sidewalk and dug in his fingers to still his spin. He grinned at Havok. 

"If that's all you got, Cyclops, Jr.," he said, "you're buzzard bait." 

The Banshee soared in from above, borne aloft on his powerful screams, and let loose a focused sonic attack on the Juggernaut. Marko put his hands to his ears, covered though they were with his metal helmet, and closed his eyes. 

Havok took the opportunity to blast him in the face. It appeared to hurt. That, at least, was gratifying. But it didn't hurt that much. 

The massive menace began lumbering towards Havok. "Okay, let's get two things straight," he said. "First: I don't like people making me look like a spinning numbskull with a bunch of TV cameras around. Second: you're dead." 

Another foe stepped in front of him. "Not till you get through me first," he said. 

The Juggernaut put up a mighty, metal-banded hand to push the newcomer aside. "Get outta the way, kid," he snapped. "Wait your freakin' turn, already." 

But the kid grabbed his wrist with a hand that was increasing perceptibly in size, strength, and mass. 

To Marko's astonished eyes, his opponent was bulking up within his weird orange and red costume, until he well-nigh matched the Juggernaut in size. 

"They call me the Mimic," said the X-Man, tightly. "Let me show you why." 

WHAM! 

The Juggernaut was knocked flying and plowed a furrow in asphalt and concrete with his back, going a full twenty feet before he could stop himself. His face showed an obvious bruise where the Mimic had slugged him. He touched his nose and his hand came away slightly wet and red. 

He smiled. 

"Sonofagun," said the Juggernaut. "About time I run into some real competition." 

Havok pointed at his teammate. "Mimic, don't stay in that form too long. The Juggernaut's powered by some evil magic force. If you tap his power...you might be next." 

He never knew if the Mimic heard him or not. Cal Rankin and the Juggernaut ran at each other like express trains on a collision course. It was horrific to see the Mimic's body distorted in such an overblown fashion, like a white-skinned Hulk, but there was little time to worry about it. The two of them came together with an impact that resounded through the area. 

Alex Summers prayed for his partner, but he had no time left to spare for him. Cal was the only one of them who could match muscles with Cain Marko. That left a lot of other enemies to tend. 

Not far away, Magneto himself was being confronted, if that was the word to use, by a green-haired girl in a chartreuse costume. He looked on her with disdain. "Go home, girl," he said. "It is not in me to slaughter children." 

Lorna Dane didn't back up. "Your friend there, Mesmero, told me that you were my father once. I believed him. Turned out that was a lie. So was the Magneto I thought was my father. He was just a robot." 

Mesmero, nearby, smiled. "That one fooled me as well. This Magneto, child, is the real article." 

The master of magnetism held up one purple-gloved hand. "I know of you, as I know of the rest of Xavier's replacement band. You are a mutant, you have powers akin to my own. But, child, you do not have powers which match my own. And I warn you only once...my sympathies for those who stand with Xavier are slight." 

For once, Lorna was grateful for the Texas heat. If her armpits were dripping sweat, they might chalk it up just to the sun. 

She raised both her arms and metal girders from the pile of rubble went flying towards Magneto. 

He raised his own and sent them back at her, and more besides. 

Even those of the Brotherhood found themselves forced to dodge as the barrage became deadlier and less controlled. Magneto and Lorna defended themselves with dome-fields of magnetic force, but each battered at the others shield with tons of steel I-beams. The tremendous smashing of steel on unseen force and creaking of bended metal brought to mind a horrific and continuous auto wreck. If either shield came down, none could tell whether the victim would receive mercy or death. 

The two were shortly buried in what appeared to be domes of strewn steel beams. Sunfire, flying overhead, was aghast. With a cry of concern, he strafed the metallic tomb of Lorna, trying to cut and melt it away from her. 

Really, he shouldn't have bothered. 

The dome of metal covering Magneto came apart like scattering shrapnel and the red-and-purple-clad mutant vaulted up into the sky, propelled by the invisible lines of force that expanded between himself and the Earth. A second later, he was joined by Lorna Dane, similarly strewing the beams that had surrounded her, some of them dripping deadly, red-hot, molten metal where Sunfire had melted them. Even the Blob found it prudent to take cover. 

Magneto snarled. He was not used to a challenge using power similar to his own. This had become more than a slugfest between himself and one of Xavier's band, now. It was a matter of pride. He spread his hands in the air as if calling down the elements, standing some thirty feet above the ground, and then brought them down, extended towards Lorna Dane. 

The heroine in green knew what was coming, and spread her own arms as if to ward off danger. That was in fact what she was doing. 

Though none could see it, Magneto was exerting his own power to encircle Lorna in a sphere of crushing, contracting magnetic waves. For her part, Lorna was exerting all her own might to maintain a sphere of defense. For a moment, it held. Then, ever so slightly, it slipped. 

Lorna Dane's expression grew even more tense. She felt as though she were in a submarine at the bottom of the Marianas Trench, with a rupture in one of its plates. If the least bit more of it gave... 

From the look in Magneto's eyes, that was just what he was planning on. "Stand with the enemy," he said, "you die with the enemy." 

Then he felt a blast from below that lifted him fully forty more feet in the air, singeing his legs, burning his back, and almost fracturing his bones. Magneto barely had time to construct a repulse-shield to spare himself further injury. Through his pain, he could guess who the attacker was. 

"Mess with her again, Magneto, and I kill you," yelled Havok from below. "Simple as that." 

From behind, Havok was attacked, flattened, pressed to the ground, weighed down so heavily he couldn't breathe. He tried unleashing his power by pressing his palms to the ground, but all it did was vibrate him and turn the soil beneath him incredibly hot. 

The Blob, over him, rasped, "This won't be the first time I ever smothered a guy. I just hope I ain't lost my touch." 

That was the last thing he said before he screamed and rolled off of Havok, his bare back burnt red by a choice lump of hellfire. Anyone else would have been rendered into ash. All the Blob was given was a second-degree burn over his spine. 

It hurt. The Blob wasn't used to being hurt. 

Sunfire swooped from above, landed, and picked Havok out of the depression in the ground he had been forced into. "Are you intact, leader?" 

Havok shook his head. "Thanks, Sun. But don't let up on the Blob. We're still in trouble." 

Then the two of them were enveloped in the most bizarre environment they could ever have imagined. Worse, it was beyond their imagining. 

Buildings, rubble, ground, combatants on both sides, even the very air seemed to have turned cubist and incredibly off-center. As if tainted by Lovecraftian geometry, in which 360 degrees was not the limit, all seemed to shift and alter radically whenever Havok or Sunfire made a single move. Even if that motion was breathing. 

Alex Summers struggled to hold his equilibrium. Even when he closed his eyes, the illusions seemed to persist. And the field of battle was too deadly to close one's eyes to for very long. But...how to fight? How to defend? How even to escape? 

Havok had never taken illegal drugs. But he imagined this might be the sensation if one were tripping on Owsley acid. Just knowing that the enemy was doing it to you didn't help a bit. With all their power, he and Sunfire were clay pigeons for as long as this...whatever it was...lasted. 

Then came a scream that was loud, shrill, piercing, and familiar. The contorted landscape seemed to withdraw into itself as if it were a theater scene being struck. Reality was resumed, and Havok stood once more on solid ground, teetering to regain his balance. He swept the scene with his eyes and saw, behind him and Sunfire, two of their foes sprawled on the ground and holding their ears. They were, not surprisingly, Mastermind and Mesmero. 

Banshee, in his uniform of yellow and green, lit on the ground beside his two teammates. "Looks like the Mandrake brothers made their last gesture," he said with a grin. "Now what, meboys?" 

"Oh, try dying for a change," said another voice, and punctuated it with gunshots. 

The three of them hit the dirt, but Toshiro was a tad late. From where he lay, Havok could see the Japanese mutant's right arm was wounded, just below the shoulder. Sunfire clutched his arm, and from the smell of it, Alex guessed he was using his power to cauterize the wound. The X-Man made no cry of pain, more credit to him, but his face was white and sweating. 

The gunman, clad in red and black, smirking, was Unus. 

"Nope, don't need anything fancy to do my work," said the evil mutant. "Go ahead and take your shot. I'll just stand here to make it easy." 

Havok raised his hands from ground level and blitzed Unus with a coruscation of power. The circles of white-hot energy splattered against the Italian-American mutant's force field harmlessly. With one hand, and a cry in Japanese, Sunfire added his power to the mix. All Unus did was laugh. 

Then the Banshee looked up. "Here's sound in yer eye, bucko," he muttered. 

He shrieked. 

A second later, Angelo Unuscione added his own scream to Banshee's. 

The Irishman unleashed his power for a full ten seconds, so long that even Sunfire's and Havok's ears began to hurt. Finally, he ended his scream, letting it trail off into a forest of echoes. Unus lay on the ground, his gun still in his hand, his eyes open and staring at the sky, his mouth gaped wide like that of a fish. Outside of his chest going slightly up and down, he was not moving. 

Banshee helped Havok and Sunfire to their feet. "It's a foregone conclusion, if'n the lad can speak and hear, then that force field of his don't hold out sound worth a diddly." 

Sunfire, still favoring his wounded arm, said, "I am obligated, Banshee. Your act of bravery shall be repaid a thousandfold." 

Alex Summers wanted to say something to the two of them, then. He wanted to tell them how they had proven themselves today, in the deadliest battle they had ever waged. They needed to be told how they were, now more than ever, acting as a team. Watching out for each other, acting in concert when the need came, feeling out their opponents' weaknesses, and capitalizing on them. Even in the heat of combat, even with one of his men wounded, they needed to know that. 

It was a pity he didn't get the chance to tell them. 

First, Lorna Dane descended towards them, looking somewhat the worse for wear. Then, a massive orange-and-red costumed figure hurtled towards them and skidded on the ground a full thirty feet before stopping. His exposed flesh looked like one large bruise. The Mimic was hors de combat. 

The Juggernaut lumbered into view from not far off, battered but grinning. "He's got the strength, but he ain't got the heart. Give 'im credit for trying, though. And that's all I'd give him, except what I gave him." 

"Oh, god," breathed Lorna. "How is he?" 

Cal struggled to turn over, opened one eye in her direction. "'m all righ'," he managed to say. "Jus' get me up...point me his way..." 

Havok snapped, "Circle around him, X-Men. Backs towards Mimic, faces to the enemy." 

The four of them complied in an instant, their feet circling the fallen Mimic. The Blob had recovered enough now to rejoin the fray, and advanced from the opposite direction as Juggernaut. From nowhere, the Vanisher appeared. His power of teleportation was negligible in an assault sense, but he was chortling at the chance to see the spawn of Xavier facing doom. 

"Sell it dearly, lads," advised Banshee. "Make 'em know they put their hands into hell. Up the X-Men!" 

"Side by side I stand with you, Cassidy," replied Sunfire. "Side by side I die with you. And a sixth one stands beside us. Honor. BANZAI!" 

Lorna only said, "Alex..." 

Havok looked straight at Juggernaut. "See if you can tear that bastard's helmet off," he said. "Then I'll see what I can do to his head." 

Another figure made his entrance from the sky. Magneto, his cape somewhat tattered by the fight with Lorna Dane, but still looking impossibly solid and powerful, descended from above and let his feet crunch in the gravel midway between the Blob and Juggernaut. At a nod from him, the two of the Brotherhood stopped their advance. 

His descent from above made Havok think, somehow, of the advent of an evil messiah. 

"No need for such puerile heroics, Havok," Magneto pronounced. "Indeed, there is no need for further battle at all." 

"Says you," said Juggernaut. "Let me at 'em!" 

"Juggernaut!" At Magneto's mention of his name, Cain Marko subsided. Havok wondered at the power of their enemy's leadership, and wondered how he could master such. Of course, that was one of his lesser worries at the moment. 

"We stand before one another, as part of the same subset," Magneto continued. "Yourselves, as myself, and my allies, all of us prime examples of the next step in human evolution: homo superior. For ten years, now, we have been placed in opposition. This is not something I would have continue. Do you recall an event that the Blob, Unus, the Vanisher, and Mastermind have told me of? The day they and your predecessors stood as one, against an enemy threat to the world? An alien who posed as one of us?" 

"Aye," said the Banshee. "The Mutant-Master. He captured me and Professor X." 

"And so he did," said Magneto. "I am told that Professor X himself instructed you never to forget that day. When there were no categories of his naming, such as 'good' mutants...the ones who stood with him...or 'evil' mutants...which he defined as the ones who did not stand with him. Have you forgotten that day, X-Men? Or, more importantly, has he?" 

"Make your point, Magneto," said Havok. "It's getting towards dinner, and I'd like to finish this up soon." 

The Blob cracked his knuckles. "Careful what ya wish for, wise guy. Ya never know who might be playin' Santa Claus." 

"My point, Havok: we have been set against each other artificially. Xavier has sold you a false dream, as false as that of Chamberlain when he spoke of peace in his time...the time of Hitler. It is not by uniting Mutant with Lesser Man that our dream of peace and security may be achieved, but by uniting Mutant with Mutant, that we may stand together in a land of our own...our Promised Land, where none of our kind may fear Homo Sapientes again. Not Good Mutant against Bad Mutant, no...but Mutants united in self-defense, and in brotherhood. In that, we offer you welcome. In that, we offer you a new dream. A dream much more real than Xavier's." 

"Go to hell," said Lorna, bravely. 

"Hell?" Magneto laughed, bitterly. "I am more familiar with that place than ever you may imagine, woman. No, I stand against hell. Against that hell which Humanity has prepared for us. Oh, I know what they can imagine. Believe me, I know it first-hand. Join with me, Havok, and your little band with you, and we begin the new age. Even your professor will be spared." 

"Get thee behind me, Satan," said Banshee, just loud enough to be heard. 

"And if we refuse?" said Sunfire, still holding one shoulder, still hurt, but ready for final battle. "What then, O tempter?" 

Magneto's gloved fist clenched. "Then you become merely another obstacle to be removed. Your decision, X-Men. Now." 

"Here's mine," said Havok, and blasted away with his circles of plasmic power. 

Lorna let loose a stream of magnetic energy. The Banshee howled. Sunfire unleashed his fiery stream from one hand. The Mimic struggled to his hands and knees, his massive frame beginning to dwindle to its normal shape. 

All of their powers, save Banshee's sonics, abutted hard against Magneto's field of force. It began to contract. 

"A pity," said Magneto. "We could have worked so well together." 

The X-Men exerted more force against their unseen prison. It was contracting like the wall of death it was, compacting them together, crushing them. Lorna strove to push her power beyond that wall, to assault Magneto himself, but couldn't manage it. The Banshee was hard-pressed to draw breath enough for a scream. Havok's eyes blazed in anger and helplessness. 

If this was the way it had to end, at least they went valiantly. 

Then, from the right, another factor entered the scene. It struck Magneto in the side of the helmet and sent him sprawling. The pressure eased up on his cage of death, and the four standing X-Men burst forth from its imprisoning walls. 

The factor had been a ruby-red beam that was all too familiar to Havok. Just as familiar were the five figures that accompanied it, at a run. Alex Summers offered a prayer of thanks, even as his eyes went wide in wonder. 

Cyclops. Marvel Girl. The Beast. Iceman. The Angel. 

He hadn't even heard their hovercraft land. 

His brother Cyclops sprinted at Magneto, grabbed him up by the shirtfront, raised him from the ground, and unleashed a terrific uppercut that got him on the jaw below his helmet. It didn't put the big man out, but it rocked Magneto's world. 

"Believe me, Magneto," said Scott, in a low voice, "you want to stay on my good side, don't ever mess with my little brother." 

-M- 

Whether or not Namor had the edge in strength against Tiger Shark was a hard thing to estimate. The two had fought several times, and Namor had triumphed in each, but not without great difficulty. The Shark, a transformed Olympic swimming champ, seemed to learn with each encounter. 

Right now, he was more than holding his own against the Sub-Mariner. He was holding Prince Namor in a full-nelson, trying to keep him in position for Orka, the human killer whale, to strike. There was no doubt about Orka's superiority in size and strength. Another creation of Dr. Dorcas, Orka had been an Atlantean before his transformation. Now, he was a monster. 

"Quit messin' around and do it," snapped Tiger Shark. "I can't hold Spock-ears here forever." 

"Give me but another second and you shall hold me not at all," grunted the prince of Atlantis. But he knew how dangerous his predicament had become. One stroke of Orka's huge fist would render him senseless. Not too many more would render him a corpse. 

In the name of Neptune, it was not supposed to end this way! 

Not with his wife, his son, Namorita, and the people of Atlantis at the mercy of the conqueror Attuma, or his black-hearted cousin Byrrah. He had little doubt what would be the fate of the women at the hands of those two. What would be his child's fate chilled his very soul, for he had no idea whether or not Attuma would choose to raise the boy as his own, or slay him outright. 

Namor flexed his muscles again, those sinews which had power to propel him through battleship plate, and felt Tiger Shark's grip giving. But it would not give quickly enough. The great, blue-gloved hand of Orka was swinging forward. 

SHOOOOMMM... 

The noise and fury of a swift and speedy entry from Above into the waterworld caused even Orka to stop his blow. Despite himself, Tiger Shark flinched in surprise. That was all it took for Namor to exert all his strength with a tremendous cry, and break the Shark's grip, allowing himself to swim free. He lashed out with a kick at the Shark's chest before speeding away from Orka's reach. 

The mass of air bubbles borne with the entrance of the invader masked them from the sight of Atlanteans and Attuma's forces alike, for a long moment. Orka looked around, saw Namor swimming away more rapidly than he could follow, and turned in rage towards those who had dared interrupt his sport, whoever they were. He lumbered towards the place from which the bubbles were issuing and reached out a mighty hand, seeking to grasp and crush whatever he could find. 

Whoever it was had hair, which seemed reassuring. But when Orka flexed the muscles of his hand, the head it held simply refused to be crushed. Frowning, Orka drew his potential victim from the bubble mass, intent on berating him for his uncooperativeness before he killed him. 

The hand came back, grasping a huge head. Even below the waves, Orka could tell the face on that head was green. It was also grinning, without any mirth at all. 

The body accompanying it, clad only in tattered purple pants, wasn't as big as Orka's. But somehow, that wasn't the least bit reassuring. 

"Who in the name of Proteus are you?" was all Orka had time to get out. The intruder grabbed his arm with green hands that felt as though they could break not only the skin but the bones beneath, and used them to crawl up his arm till he was within reach of the human killer whale's face. 

Once there, he pronounced a two-word judgment: 

"HULK SMASH!" 

THOOM. 

Orka flew backward faster even than anyone had seen a warship move that day, promoting currents that spun warriors around in their wake, knocking combatants out of the way, smashing the bottom out of a passing craft with his head, and crashing against a coral reef, almost plowing right through it. He was still on the near side of consciousness, but that was becoming an iffy proposition. 

The green stranger really should have taken longer than he did to get to Orka, but the latter wasn't expecting him to travel the distance in a huge jump. The worst part about it was, both great green feet landed square on Orka's chest, and they hurt like hell. 

Arguably, things were getting serious. 

Two other figures had emerged from the point of entry, now. One of them had silvery skin that caught what light was to be found at that depth and reflected it like a metal statue come to life. Below his feet was a board, which propelled him forward without a visible power source or exhaust trail. He was heading straight for the clashing mass of warships, both his hands outstretched. 

The isolated warriors on both sides below shouted out warnings to the newcomer. He was heading straight into certain death. Then, as he passed, they shrugged and resumed their battle. If the silver man wanted to throw his life away, let him. Nobody else was on that much more secure a footing. 

The ships of Atlantis and Attuma barely gave him a notice as they unleashed their armaments at each other. That is, until he got between them and halted, a palm stretched out in each direction. From his hands came two blindingly-bright streams of energy, brighter by far than any of the beams that had been seen in the day's combat. 

And the raybursts and deadly projectiles and forward motion of every craft in the vicinity ceased. 

Shouting with rage, the warriors in the ships threw full power into their engines. It mattered not a whit. The warcraft were stalled in their places. It was as if they had been imbedded in glass. 

In his command ship, Attuma roared. 

"What base trickery has the Atlantean employed? Is he too squid-hearted to let my forces fight? Where in the Stygian depths is his fighting spirit?" 

Saru-San, Attuma's court jester, shrugged. "Perhaps, milord, he just doesn't want to take the trouble anymore." 

Attuma hauled off and smacked him straight across the bridge. 

Two of his viewscreens on the console had lit up. They showed the faces of Byrrah and Llyra, and neither of them looked pleased. "Attuma," said the cousin of Namor. "In Neptune's name, what has happened? My cruiser was passed by a jellyfish!" 

"The silver man has shut us down, you fool," shouted the green-skinned woman. "He's one of Namor's allies, but I've never seen him before." 

Attuma cursed. "Must I do the thinking for all the Triumvirate? Our ships are stilled, but we are not. My forces and I will abandon our craft and take the fight to Namor hand-to-hand. Can you really hope to expect mercy from the Sub-Mariner after today?" 

"Do you really expect me to fight Namor hand-to-hand?" retorted Byrrah. "That is a grand way to end up handless!" 

"Then refuse," answered Attuma, "and end up headless, once I find you. Break contact." Attuma slammed a switch on his console, then opened another. "Attention, Attuman forces. This is your commander. Abandon all warcraft and engage enemy in single combat. Any laggards face personal reprisal from me. This day either Atlantis, or the barbarian nation, will fall. Order ended." 

The merman in the horned helmet snapped off the contact switch, selected a weapon from a rack over the fallen Saru-San, and, shortly afterward, emerged from his ship's hatch along with the rest of his crew. 

If he had kept his viewscreen on a tad longer, Attuma might have found out what became of Byrrah. In his own ship, the blacksheep relation of Atlantis's royal family was proceeding down the walkway to the escape hatch when he bypassed a series of portholes in the side. 

Through the thick quartz glass he saw a man, with the white skin of a surfacer, floating near his ship, wearing a blue garment and a red cape which billowed in the water. 

Byrrah blinked. What in damnation was such a character doing this far below the only element he could breathe? 

The man's orange-gloved hands formed odd, two-fingered gestures. Byrrah assumed it was some sort of obscene surface insult. Once he got out there, he'd blow the man apart with a blaster. Then he could get on to more serious matters, like putting a lot of space between himself and Atlantis. 

But before Byrrah could get more than that thought out, blasts of golden energy leaped the gap between the surface man's hands and Byrrah's body, even though they had to go through a solid, reinforced warship hull to do so. 

An instant later,.he fell as though someone had cut the connection between his brain and his voluntary nervous system. Byrrah lay on the floor of the craft, unable to move. But he could see, hear, and think. 

Within seconds, Dr. Strange had opened the hatch of Byrrah's command ship and entered it. He was unused to fighting underwater, but he had tips from the red-and-white-clad man at his side, who had been summoned along with him and had insisted on going along. Sting-Ray, blasting miscreants with electric shocks from his hands, noted that the magic of Dr. Strange, whom he had never met before today, worked as well below the surface as above it. 

They rendered the crew helpless in record time, and went on to another ship, and another after that. 

Between them, Dr. Strange and the Silver Surfer managed to stop just about all the individual warfare between invaders and Atlanteans. Whether stupefied by spells or paralyzed by the Power Cosmic, the blue men of the underwater world soon found themselves unable to battle each other. All things considered, the loss of life on both sides was surprisingly low. 

But still existent. 

Sub-Mariner had been streaking for Tiger Shark with one fist outstretched, ready to knock his foe into total oblivion, when the villain in the orange-and-grey suit suddenly shimmered and vanished. It took Namor precious seconds to halt his forward momentum, and by then he had passed straight through the space of water which Tiger Shark had occupied. Therefore, he deduced that his foe had not been somehow rendered invisible, but had in fact been transported away. 

By whom? 

His attention was drawn by a familiar roar, and by the sound of metal rendering and warriors screaming. Namor swiveled and propelled himself in another direction, towards a spot from which he saw large chunks of warship being flung. He didn't have to guess who was responsible. 

The Hulk, having beaten the tar out of Orka, was tearing any warship within his general area into tiny pieces. Thankfully, the crews had escaped, and both Atlanteans and barbarians were swimming for their lives. Namor guessed the behemoth was just taking out his fury on inanimate objects. That was all right, considering the alternative. 

Even from this distance, Namor could see an aura surrounding the Hulk. Whatever it was, and whoever had put it there (and he already had two good candidates for that), it was probably supplying the Hulk with air and protecting him from the subsea pressures. Not that he really needed the latter. The Hulk had been in Atlantis before, and Namor had carried the bruises for weeks afterwards to prove it. 

"Peace be with you, green-skinned one," ventured the Sub-Mariner. 

The Hulk looked up and chunked a large bit of warship at him. Namor dodged, and swam away. Let the green buffoon amuse himself however he might. 

It was not very many more minutes before, among the throng of still-moving warriors, the prince caught sight of a familiar visage. The other also caught sight of him, and aimed a weapon. It was of a new design, and Namor only barely dodged the missile. The thing curved back and began to seek him, at an unholy speed. 

A silvery stream of power caught it and destroyed it without harm. The Sub-Mariner turned to see the Silver Surfer nearby, and nodded to him briefly before speeding towards Attuma. The barbarian warlord was readying some other weapon, but the Atlantean could see the fear in his eyes. 

Namor took care of that with one good punch. 

Then a thrust of energy repelled him from Attuma's fallen body. With a voice hardly hampered by the depths, the Surfer intoned, "There will be no more killing today. The Silver Surfer has spoken." 

The prince of the realm turned a scornful look on his ally. "The only way to stop the slaying is by slaying this one," he proclaimed. "All too many times has he beset my nation. All too many times has he barely been bested." 

"Slay him, and you must slay me first, Sub-Mariner," said the Surfer, and waited with arms crossed. 

After a few seconds, the two of them heard another voice cry, "Hey!" 

They turned in the direction from which it had come. Sting-Ray was there, holding up an unconscious Warlord Krang by his collar. "Good thing I was still on the job. This bilge-scum was about to pot-shot the both of you, for whatever that'd be worth." 

Sub-Mariner grimly smiled. "My thanks, Walter Newell. Once again, you prove yourself a surface-man I can trust." The Sting-Ray, a scientist and oceanographer, had transformed himself into a part-time super-hero with the suit of his design, which supplied him with air, protected him from pressure, and allowed him to deliver shocks like the greatest of electric eels. He had worked with Namor several times over the years, and both had the respect of the other. 

"What now, Prince Namor?" asked the Silver Surfer. 

Namor gestured to Attuma. "Pick him up and carry him with you. If I have to do it, he might not arrive at my dungeon in the same shape he takes at this time." 

But, afar off, where a blonde girl in a green swimsuit had still been obediently guarding the fallen Dr. Dorcas, things were not going so well. Namorita had been found by Llyra, the Lemurian / human hybrid who had once almost murdered Dorma. They had fought, and Nita had shown great strength and courage. But she was still not a match for the green-skinned woman in red. 

Now Nita was desperately trying to fight back, even to claw her enemy's face. But that face was sneering down at her in sadistic pleasure as her strong green hands put incredible pressure on Namorita's windpipe. The face began to blend with flashes of black and white, and, mentally, the girl began to recite a child's prayer to Neptune. Neptune, the father of Atlantis, who had left his trident in hiding...Neptune, who guided the souls of the deserving through death... 

And Llyra's eyes went wide in shock, somehow, and she gurgled wordlessly as Nita felt an impact transmitted through her body. 

The middle tine of a trident had just penetrated the villainess's throat. The other two framed her neck, as if she were a morsel on the fork of a giant. 

There wasn't even enough strength left in Llyra for a death throe. 

The limp green hands fell away from Namorita's throat and, as her gills began to draw life-giving oxygen from the water about her once more, her vision cleared. She saw the one whose hands held the trident, whose eyes were even now stained by oily tears. The one who had given Llyra her final retribution. 

Lady Dorma. 

The queen of Atlantis almost collapsed to her knees atride Namorita, grabbing her and hugging her desperately close. "You live, Namorita. You live." 

Nita tried to speak. "I...I..." 

"Hush, child," said Dorma. "She is dead. Once and for all, she is dead. And the trident...yes. That is the trident of Father Neptune. Once, Namor himself risked life and limb to reclaim it, to restore himself to the throne of Atlantis, to save my life, and to overthrow the usurper Krang. I think...it has been put to fitting use today." 

And there were no more words for a long time after that. 

Later, in the throne room, there were many more words. Namor, seated on his royal chair anew, wearing his crown and robe of office, had presented Dr. Strange, the Silver Surfer, the Hulk, and Sting-Ray with medals for meritorious service to the realm. (The Hulk had torn his off abruptly and crushed it.) Namorita, Dorma, and Namor II were also present, as was Lord Vashti, the grand vizier of Atlantis. 

"The queen has informed me that she was the one who summoned you, and the other Defenders, to the realm," Namor pronounced. 

Dr. Strange nodded. "It was an emergency measure. In case you ever needed our help, I could guess that your pride wouldn't let you call for it. So I gave her a mystic jewel through which she could contact me, if the time came. And it came today." 

The Sub-Mariner glanced at his wife, as if to say, Where is the jewel? She smiled back, holding her son in her arms, as if to say, I will never tell. 

"From what we have learned through Byrrah," Namor continued, "mine enemies were contacted through Tiger Shark, who was himself supposedly the agent of another power. But without him, we know nothing. He vanished from the field of battle—literally." 

"I detected an unusual residue of energy in that area," reported the Surfer. "It came from neither Strange nor myself. Nor have I encountered quite its like before." 

"Magic," said Dr. Strange, simply. 

The Hulk said nothing, but sat on the floor, looking bored and sulky. Dorma prayed that the green giant would not fall into a rage. She, too, had seen his power, once when he beset Atlantis, and once when he and Namor first joined forces with the Surfer. Even though he was an ally, it was akin to being joined with a ticking bomb. 

"And if so, whose?" asked Namor. "Could it be the Undying Ones again, who once brought you, I, and the Hulk into concert? Or Dormammu, whose power we faced not long ago?" 

"I've got suspicions, but no proof," admitted the magician. "And if what I think is true, we're going to need your help, Namor. The Defenders will have to be together for this one." 

Namor shook his head. "No. The Realm needs me. There is much to rebuild, and prisoners to tend to. We may have broken the back of Attuma's power, but without vigilance, it might grow a new spine." 

"And if Tiger Shark is gone, you can guarantee he won't be gone for long," Strange reminded him. "All hell is breaking loose in America. Super-villains acting in concert, race riots, leftist riots, and now this. Try and tell me, Namor, it isn't a branch of the same tree." 

The Sub-Mariner stared at the mage, and Dorma clutched her sleeping baby closer. 

Finally, Namor said, "We will remain here another day. Can the Surfer's auras provide you with air enow for that time?" 

"They could stay here for the rest of their lives, if I desired," replied the Surfer. 

"Then you will be the honored guests of the Realm for that time, while I set things to rights," Namor declared. "After that...we shall see." 

"Suits me," said the Sting-Ray. "As long as the Surfer keeps my oxygen supply up. Even my suit has limits." 

The Hulk stirred. "When do we get to smash something else?" 

Namor and the others looked tense. Gently, Dr. Strange lay a gloved hand on the green one's massive shoulder. "Give us one day to rest, my friend, and we'll show you all the fighting you could want." 

The green Goliath smiled. "Always knew Magician wasn't all dumb." 

-M- 

There had been a war behind closed doors in Greenwich Village. Clea and Wong had battled valiantly, but they were in over their head. 

Now the two of them, bound by physical and mystical restraints, could see the four who had conquered them. Only one of them was familiar, and he was all too well known to them. That was Baron Karl Amadeus Mordo, the greatest evil sorceror living, and the greatest mortal foe of Dr. Strange. 

They had no idea who the others were. The huge, misshapen green troll-like being in trunks, the bare-chested man in prison pants who carried a wicked-looking ball and chain, the pointy-toothed one in an orange-and-grey costume with a big fin on his back...they were unknown quantities. But they were powerful. All too powerful for Dr. Strange's lady and servant. 

"So why don't we take care of 'em now?" said the finned man. "Why wait?" 

"They are bait," said Mordo, and that seemed to explain it. 

"I wanna get this over with," groused the bald man with the ball and chain. "Outside'a the Hulk, I ain't even met any of these creeps you told me about." 

"You don't worry about the Hulk," said the green troll, in a low rumble. "I'll take care of him. Real good." 

"You are here because you are needed," said Mordo. "Afterward, if Thor yet survives, we will aid you against him." 

"From what I hear, the Masters of Evil may beat us to 'im," said Tiger Shark. 

The magician smiled. "Amateurs," he said, "beside the power of Mordo and his Ministers of Menace." 

-M- 

It was hard to tell when Simon Gilbert was seething, because he'd learned to keep such emotions to himself. He was a good poker player. 

But the documents that Mitchell the accountant had brought him just didn't make sense. He knew costs and overruns and everything it took to run a business. And the figures he'd brought in just didn't seem to make sense. 

It was as though Gilbert Enterprises was running a huge black budget. 

Moreover, it was in the very areas he had assigned to Gary. 

As if there wasn't enough hell around already, what with the rioting in the streets and the damned superheroes and super-villains. 

He punched a button on his telephone. "Miss Roarke. Cancel my appointments for the afternoon. I'm going to be out." 

"What? But, Mr. Gilbert..." 

"I said, I'm going to be out." He punched a button beside it, and the contact was broken. Simon Gilbert got up, pushed his chair back, looked out the window at Manhattan round about him, and sighed. Then he put the folder with the papers he had looked over into his briefcase, snapped it shut, got his hat and coat from a tree in the corner, and stepped out of his office. 

Gary was probably at his house in the suburbs tonight. And he was going to have a surprise visitor. 

Whether he liked it or not. 

-M- 

The room where the man sat was darkened, the way he liked it. He wore a smoking jacket and comfortable pants and slippers, and paged through an ancient scrapbook by the light of a fireplace. It was the room's only illumination. 

There they were, all the records of happier times. He stood in one photo beside that dolt Hitler, the one who had given him everything, only to learn too late that all he had could be taken away as well. Pity the Human Torch got to him first. 

Along with that were the bodies of men who had died, usually by his hand, sometimes by those of men he employed. Trophies. Idly, the man understood Baron von Richthofen and his obsession with trophies and numbers. Of course, he had long since passed the Baron's total of 80. He'd done better than that by his first year. 

Of course, pictures of his greatest enemy were there, along with the runny-nosed brat who kept company with him. Damn him. Damn him thoroughly. Sometimes, the man thought that his enemy was the real reason the war had been lost, though even he usually regarded that as an insane thought. The enemy had thought the man dead time after time, and time after time the man had risen from apparent death to prove him wrong. 

There had to be a plan beyond human imagining that kept the man in action, in tact, in condition, and in hatred long after his original sponsors had died. He was a Great Antithesis, if his enemy could be thought of as a Great Thesis. Of course, that smacked too much of damnable Marxism. But how else could once explain his survival, and his foe's, both in suspended animation, both revived within years of each other, and both promptly at each other's throats anew? 

But the battle had not yet ended. 

Not, at least, before the present circumstance. 

It could be capitalized upon. The man knew exactly how he would do it. He put the scrapbook down long enough to turn on his stereo. The strains of Chopin's Funeral March filled the room. He smiled. 

He looked at the page before him. It bore a photograph of himself during the time he had toured Treblinka. That was shortly after the camp's commandants learned how to effectively burn the bodies they had accumulated. 

He smiled. Nostalgia. It was worth the indulgence, almost. 

The Red Skull stood and warmed his hands, in memory of that earlier fire. 

To be continued...   



	18. Part 18:  In Search of Evil

FIRE! 

Part 18 

by DarkMark 

Ivan Petrovitch hadn't been exaggerating. There were a lot of guys in costumes down at Golden Gate Park, there was a big hairy guy with horns among them, and they were holding a lot of hostages. 

The SFPD had surrounded the park with black-and-whites and men with guns and megaphones. Chief Ironguts O'Hara was trying to scare the bad guys into surrendering. It wasn't doing much good. The force didn't mind opening up on the nut jobs in union suits, but there were a lot of John Q. Publics in harm's way, and it only took one of them going down to lose a cop his job forever. 

It was a clear enough day for the TV helicopters to do their work effectively, but they made sure they didn't go in for any closeups. The audience was treated to the sight of a colorful mob whose regalia put to shame any of the hippies and straights whom they held prisoner within their human ring. 

Four of them had worked together extensively. They wore animalistic costumes and went by the names of Frog Man, Cat-Man, Ape-Man, and Bird-Man. The Jester, a loon in a court fool's costume, was holding some children hostage with a deadly, razor-bladed yo-yo. Crime-Wave, a masked man nobody much could remember seeing, had several couples helpless at the point of a conventional gun. The Tribune, some nut in a judge's robe and mask, covered several others with a gavel that fired bullets. There was a woman named Suprema and her partner Scarbo, whom none of the others had met before. Of course, the Man-Bull was present, twice as big as a normal man and hairy, with two bull's horns growing out of his head. 

Presiding over the lot of them was the Owl, former ganglord from New York, in his fancy haircut and strangely-cut suit. He had a megaphone of his own, and he wasn't shy about using it. 

"All we require is Daredevil," he boomed out over the park. "You can throw in his lady friend if you wish. Give us them, and your difficulties will be over." 

"Look, uh...Mr. Owl..." began Ironguts O'Hara, over his own bullhorn. "It's not exactly like this DD character is on the city payroll, for cripes' sake." 

Ape Man sneered to his partner Frog Man. "Does he think we're imbeciles? We know how the guy operates." 

"Just doin' his job, Keefer," said Frog Man, laconically. "Just doin' his job." 

"I want that hornheaded twit," snapped Crime-Wave, handling his gun in an unsettling fashion. "I want him so bad I could rip out his jugular with my bare teeth. I want him so bad I could take his woman in front of him. I want him so bad..." 

"So what'd he do to you, already?" said the Jester. 

"Broke up my plans for criminal domination and sent me to jail." 

The Jester smiled even wider than usual. "Welcome to the club." 

One of the hostages, a hairy type named Dean, tried to rise up from a sitting position. The Tribune's gun waved menacingly in his direction. "Siddown, hippie," the masked man snarled. 

"Uh, hey, man, I can relate to a protest type situation," Dean said, hoping that his girl Melanie nearby was at least slightly impressed. "But, first off, you haven't really defined your terms. I mean, politically. I mean, sure. You want Daredevil. But where does that fit into the larger picture? I mean, you need to state a position on, say, Viet Nam, and black rights, and student rights, and..." 

A shot kicked up grass and dirt near Dean's feet. He drew in more breath than he thought himself capable of, and held it. 

"Shut up, you ******* Communist pinko fag bleeding heart liberal sonofa..." the Tribune began. Scenes from Dean's life began flashing before his eyes. He was just getting down to Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young at Altamont when a large, horned man grabbed the Tribune's gun hand by the wrist and pointed it upward. 

"Lay off with the gun," said Man-Bull. "You know the plan." 

"Plan? PLAN?" yelled the Tribune. "It's hippie druggie left-wing good for nothing anti-American scum like this that's ruining this country! That...that...you know what he is...put me in jail for bustin' things like this pot-smokin' no-account longhaired doper fag in front of me. And he ruined my career! I can't sing country no more, and no station'll play my records. Can't even get a gig in a bar no more!" 

"I am so worried sick about it," Man-Bull replied, and squeezed the Tribune's wrist a bit. "Now. You want to complain some more? No?" 

The Tribune tried to be silent, but he whimpered a bit. "Goldarn it, that smarts." 

"Uh huh. So you be a good boy from here on in, or it gets worse, okay?" 

The Tribune said nothing, but finally nodded. 

"Fine. Let's keep it that way." The Man-Bull released the Tribune, and the man in the judge's outfit crumpled on the ground. Dean took Melanie by the hand and got to his feet, beginning to exit the scene. 

The Tribune transferred his gun to his left hand and pointed it. "Don't you even think about it," he warned. Dean and Melanie sat back down on the grass. 

Man-Bull, walking off, passed by the duo of Suprema and Scarbo. The woman, Suprema, was an attractive black-haired wench in a tight-fitting green outfit. She looked threatening enough and never seemed to be off guard. The man, Scarbo, was one of the largest in the bunch, bald-headed and unspeaking. Man-Bull towered over him. 

"So how'd you guys tangle with Daredevil?" asked the horned man, casually. 

"Never met him," said Suprema, her arms crossed over her chest. 

"Why are you here?" 

"The Owl hired us," Suprema answered. She turned away from Man-Bull. He shrugged and continued on. 

All told, there were about 36 people being held by the villain group. The Owl's men could have rounded up more, but they opted for a smaller, more easily-guarded number. 

"How much longer we gonna wait, Owl?" asked Bird Man, flapping over the portly figure in the green cloak. 

The Owl regarded his hireling with distaste. "Have you not played this scenario out before, sir? We wait till the prey is lured into our claws. Then we spring our trap, and voila! The mice are ours." 

"People been layin' traps for Daredevil ever since 1964. He's still here, and we all been in jail." 

"Some of you have," the Owl pointed out. "Not I." 

The ominous overlord of crime, as he liked to refer to himself, took out a pair of binoculars from a bag and scanned the perimeter. Inwardly, he regretted the fact that he had so few opponents of Daredevil to ally himself with. Most of the good ones were hooked up with Electro, and Electro had been assigned to New York, thanks to his Sinister Six connection. That left the Owl to forage, and he'd even had to hire Suprema and Scarbo, two old enemies of Captain America, because their employer had insisted on a woman in the group. Well, that made sense if you took the Black Widow into account. She had no surviving enemies of her own. 

Not that he had anything against killing a woman, if need be. But it was much better to let one of the same sex handle that, if need be. 

The Owl kept looking at the cops, the gathering crowd behind the barricades, the helicopters, and, occasionally, the villains and the hostages. Daredevil would make an appearance before long. He hoped they could get this thing over with soon. San Francisco, with its fog and unclimbable streets, was not a city he particularly liked. 

In one of the news helicopters above, two passengers who were not journalists surveyed the scene below. 

"So when will you find what you're looking for?" asked the Black Widow. 

Daredevil, leaning his head cautiously out of the helicopter hatch, said, "It takes a little while, Natasha. Even with radar sense. But..." He lifted a hand. "Wait. Tack over a few degrees to port, please." 

The pilot obeyed. A few seconds later, Daredevil nodded. "There. In that copse of trees. He's sitting on a bench, wearing a hat and overcoat. He smells very sweaty. I'm not surprised." 

"Is he armed?" 

"Doesn't need to be. Also, Ape Man, another big man, and a woman are standing guard. Never met the other two before. Ready?" 

The redheaded Russian woman smiled. "Always." 

The two of them leaned out the hatch, side by side. The Widow shot out her widow's line from her wrist bracelet. The grappler on the end of it caught the chopper's landing gear and fastened itself tightly around it. Daredevil flipped out his billy club and let the cane handle catch on the gear beside her line, trailing its swing cable. 

Then he looked up. "Company," he said. 

Bird Man was flying towards them, his wicked grin showing underneath his red hawk's headpiece. "Knew you'd be tryin' something like this," he rasped, his claws outstretched. "It's the only easy way in. That's why I get first dibs." 

Natasha slacked her line a bit and pointed her wrist at him. "That's why you get first bite." 

The winged man took the Widow's Bite full in the face, getting an overpowering blast of electricity that robbed him of consciousness. Daredevil leaped out and, holding onto his billy club with one hand, snatched the Bird Man's ankle with the other. Villain or not, they couldn't let him fall to his death. 

He sensed heads all over the park turning upward, some drawn by the sight directly, others by those pointing him out to their companions. 

"Let's go," he said. 

Hero and heroine swung down on their individual lines, Daredevil dropping the unconscious Bird Man from a safe height into the top of the trees overshadowing their quarry. The element of surprise might last about half a minute, tops. Their reactions would be quick and deadly. 

So his and the Widow's actions had to be quicker. 

The Widow and DD both hit the ground between the trees, crouching and springing up to take the impact, releasing their lines from the helicopter and retracting them. Ape Man, Suprema, and Scarbo were heading for them. Natasha whipped her hair back from her face and bent her wrist towards them. "This is what I used to bring your friend down. Anyone want to argue with it?" 

Suprema grabbed Scarbo by the shoulders and pushed him in the Widow's direction. "Sorry, brother," she murmured. He stumbled forward and the Widow zapped him, making him fall like a dead weight. She was quick behind him, and the karate kick she unleashed against Natasha was as fast as it was unavoidable. 

The kick made her see stars. Even so, she flipped herself out of the way, and swung her hand around, blasting. Both Ape Man and Suprema ducked under it. Well, nobody told her things were going to be easy, either when she was KGB or when she became a defector superheroine. 

Natasha regained her feet and shook her head to clear it. The woman was coming forward. She wanted a fight. That'd be fine, but Ape Man looked like he just wanted to crush her to death. With his mechanized costume, he could, if she let him. 

The sleek woman in the black catsuit didn't intend to let him. 

She whipped out her web-line, swung it so the end of it wrapped around his neck, and ran as fast as she could towards the trees. Despite himself, Ape Man was dragged along with her, and contacted a tree trunk full on with his face. Despite his padded mask, it stunned him. 

Natasha retracted her line. All to the good, she thought. Two down, probably a dozen or more to go. 

Daredevil himself knew his quarry. The hostages nearest them had picked themselves up off the ground and were heading anywhere else they could run to, as long as it didn't bring them into range of one of the other villains. He had to get his man, and get him now. 

The man he sought was simply sitting on a bench, under a tree, holding his cane. The Man Without Fear sprinted for him, seeing his silhouette reflected by the unknown radiations that his brain or body sent out in all directions and which he interpreted when they bounced back to him. There wasn't any time for jokes. He balled his fist and leaped at his prey, just as the man looked up at him in horror. 

"Ki—umphh," was all he could get out before Daredevil bashed him in the jaw. The strangely colored man fell sideways off the bench. DD paused and took in air. Another figure was approaching with great speed, and leaping. He knew who it was before the villain's spring-fed feet struck him in the side of the head, knocking him sprawling. 

Frog Man abandoned Daredevil to grab Killgrave the Purple Man and slap him back to semi-consciousness. "Come on, punk, wake up. Say your magic words. Now!" 

"Now?" said Killgrave, groggily. 

"Definitely now," said Leap Frog, looking at Daredevil getting back to his feet and brandishing his billy club. 

In a loud voice, the Purple Man shouted, "KILL DAREDEVIL AND THE BLACK WIDOW!" 

The bad guys didn't have to be persuaded. But elsewhere, the hostages, police, and onlookers stopped in their tracks. 

Then they started repeating mantras among themselves as they turned back, scanning the area: "Kill Daredevil...kill the Black Widow...kill Daredevil...the Black Widow...kill her...kill him..." 

Natasha, fighting with Suprema, saw the hippies and straights suddenly turn back towards them and begin walking in her direction, like zombies in tie-dyed shirts and peace medallions. She parried a blow from her rival and struck back, but abruptly shoved the villainess away and backed off to assess the situation. 

Suprema smirked. "The other outfits may need backup. We just make our own." 

Apparently, the Owl and his minions knew what part of the park they were in now. She saw the crimeboss in the air just above the treetops, using his uncanny gliding ability to head towards them. He was smiling with satisfaction. From the sound of things, Man-Bull was leading a charge in their direction. 

Daredevil was trying to get to the Purple Man, knowing that if he could be kayoed, his command to the crowd might dissipate. But the crowd of people were forming a phalanx in front of Killgrave, and try as he might, he couldn't get through them. Worse, he knew he couldn't really use as much force against civilians as he could against a super-criminal. The crowd, motivated by Killgrave's hypnotic power, didn't have any such problem. 

He heard Killgrave call out, jauntily, "Just like old times, eh, Daredevil? Only this should be the last old time we'll have to meet!" 

"Same old song, not much of an arrangement," commented Daredevil. "See you in Round Two, Killgrave." 

"Why? We don't intend to let you get past Round One!" 

The Owl, swooping lower, brandished a weapon that looked like something beyond the usual NRA dreams. It was pointed straight at Daredevil. The masked man threw his billy club up expertly. It smashed against the Owl's jaw and dropped him like a plummet. The distance wasn't deadly, but it stunned the heck out of the bad man when he hit the grass. 

Daredevil shoved away the crowd nearest him and flipped over to where the club was coming back down. Putting out a hand, he caught it as expertly as an outfielder dragging down a potential home run. Then he snagged an upper branch of a tree, swung himself up, bounded to another, and dropped to the ground in time to give Natasha a hand with beating back the civilians that were trying to drag her down. 

"Nice of you to come," she grunted, punching out a stockbroker wielding a stick. 

"All comes with the costume," he replied, lifting a longhaired guy in a U.S. Army jacket and throwing him back into the crowd. 

But a new arrival was shoving away the crowdspeople before him with much less care than Daredevil and the Widow, and it wasn't hard to see him coming. Man-Bull towered more than a head above everyone else around him. He looked as enraged as if someone had been flapping a matador's cape at him. "Devil! I'm comin' for ya, Devil! I'm gonna send ya ta Hell!" 

He was now in front of both of them, his powerful arms outstretched, seemingly to crush them both. "Well? Whatcha got to say for yourselves, before ya die?" 

Both the Widow and Daredevil flipped over onto their hands and used one foot apiece to kick him expertly on each side of his neck. The Man-Bull's bovine eyes crossed and he hit the dirt, face-first. 

The two of them regained their footing before sharing a brief grin. But the mob was closing in on them again. "What next?" asked the Widow, back to back with her lover. 

Daredevil's ears had told him the answer before anything else. "That," he said, pointing upward. The helicopter that had brought them in was descending. But the pilot didn't look like he had their best interests in mind. He was barely skirting the trees, and he had a gun in hand, trying to get to a place where he could properly aim it. 

This had to be done precisely. But Matt Murdock had been doing things precisely for eight years now, and saw no reason to stop at present. He grabbed the Black Widow about the waist with one hand and flicked his billy club's cable at another high tree branch. Before the zombified crew could get to them, he had the two of them swung back into the tree. The chopper was coming nearer, and the sunglass-wearing pilot looked cheerful about having a clear shot at them for once. 

The billy club's business end bounced off his jaw and knocked him unconscious. He slumped and dropped the gun to the floor of the craft. 

Before the chopper could do more than list, Daredevil swung the grappling-hook section of his club and snagged its landing gear. Then he retracted it, swinging himself up to the ship. A backflip brought him inside, where he shoved the pilot into the copilot's seat, grabbed the controls, and righted the chopper. 

The Widow's line was already wrapped about the landing gear. "Permission to come aboard, tovarisch," she said, flipping inside. 

"Permission granted," he said, holding the controls steady. "Don't think I could stop you if I wanted." As soon as she had strapped herself in her seat, Daredevil took them up. The mob was already trying to climb the trees to get at them. 

As they ascended, DD saw that it was just as bad as he expected. Killgrave's influence had spread to the police on the perimeter. Soon, shots were ringing out. He took the chopper away from the scene before they could get any nearer. 

A few minutes later, he landed the helicopter in a mostly-empty parking lot near a closed department store. The place had been chosen deliberately. The two of them got out, leaving the still-unconscious pilot in the chopper, and raced over to the Rolls which Ivan Petrovitch was driving towards them. Both of them swung the back doors open and got in, slamming them shut afterward. Ivan steered the car away. 

"Appears that it didn't work," remarked Ivan, keeping his eyes on the road. 

The Black Widow took the car phone from its cradle and dialed a number. "Hello? Police department? This is the Black Widow. Natasha Romanoff. I have some instructions you must pass on to Chief O'Hara. What? Yes, Daredevil is with me. But I...ah. All right, I will put him on." With a look of discontent, she passed the phone to Daredevil. 

"This is Daredevil. Code is Tiresias. Confirmed? Listen closely. Killgrave is in mental control of the crowd within the park. That's right, Zebediah Killgrave. There are several police under his domination already. Tell Chief O'Hara to establish a separate perimeter around the old one, with a buffer zone. I don't know what they're going to try next, but other people must be kept out of the park. Anyone who goes in there risks being a slave of Killgrave. The hostages are under another kind of threat now. They're being controlled by Killgrave. Well...we tried. We'll try again, very soon. Thank you. Yes, we'll stay in touch. Goodbye." 

He handed the phone back to the Widow, who hung it up. "They still don't trust me that well," she said. 

Ivan shrugged as he took them downtown. "Once a Communist, always a Communist. That's what they think." 

"Not all of them," she said. "But enough of them." 

"We've got other things to worry about," said Daredevil, checking his billy club. "By my count, that crowd in Killgrave's thrall has expanded to over 70. If he and his entourage just decide to take a stroll out of the park, he can add more to his control, exponentially. At least it hasn't been that long since he struck here, so they'll take his threat seriously." 

"Yeah," said Ivan. "Not to mention those other playmates of yours that've been hanging around the park." 

"Definitely," DD confirmed, returning the club to its holster. "Our strategy, with or without Ironguts's help: take out Killgrave, then worry about the Owl and company." 

"And how are we supposed to do that, Matt?" asked Natasha. 

"We'll work on it. Very, very fast." He paused. "I'm bothered about this another way." 

"What way is there left?" muttered Ivan. 

Daredevil rubbed the back of his neck. His hands were soon joined by Natasha's, which did a much better job of massage. "This has to be connected with the villain uprisings we've seen over the country in the news. In each one of them, the M.O. has been similar. Every time a team of super-villains gets put down, a backup team shows up out of nowhere. The ones we fought today may be just the ones we can see." 

"I doubt that, Matt," said Natasha, working on his shoulders. "The girl I fought told me that they didn't need any backup, with the civilians under their control." 

"Never take the word of an enemy at face value," said Daredevil. "I wasn't listening to her pulse when she said that." 

"This has to be part of that operation I heard of," said the Widow. 

DD looked at her. 

Natasha looked at him, steadily. "I have informants even you know nothing about, Matt. I learned of an operation that had been recruiting even super-agents from the Motherland. The only thing beyond that he could tell me was a purported codeword: 'Fire'." 

"'Fire,'" Daredevil repeated. "Have you told SHIELD?" 

"Not yet," she admitted. 

"Get on the phone to Nick Fury." 

She sighed, picked up the phone again, and began to dial. Ivan looked towards the back, momentarily. "DD, one thing I have to know." 

"What's that, Ivan?" 

"You managed to fly and land a helicopter today. As good as any pilot I've ever seen. How?" 

Daredevil leaned over conspiratorially. "Don't tell anyone I'm blind. I could lose my pilot's license." 

-M- 

The tide of battle had turned in favor of the X-Men, not surprisingly. Cyclops and his team had a long-standing grudge against Magneto, their first collective foe, and they meant to settle it today if they could. 

It was the first time the original X-Men had worked together since the breakup, and the first time ever that both teams of heroic mutants had united in combat. Cyclops, after landing several powerful blows to Magneto's head and body, had been smashed back by girders which leaped from a pile and shoved him away. Havok blasted the metal away from his brother, but Magneto had retreated a bit, and both knew he was deadlier than they wanted to contemplate. 

Other girders were battering at Juggernaut, wielded by Lorna Dane. Marvel Girl joined with her, using the telepathic abilities she had been bequeathed by Professor Xavier to assault his mind. For all that, Cain Marko was still up and fighting, gathering himself up and preparing an assault. But as he stepped forward, he slipped on a newly-formed sheet of ice and went to his back, swearing. 

"You think you've got the edge, now," he roared. "You've only given us more targets!" 

The Iceman hit him in the face with a slushball. "And you're too big a target to miss, Juggy. Sorry, couldn't resist." 

The Angel dive-bombed the lesser villains still remaining, but found the Vanisher appearing on his back. The teleporting villain had a knife. That didn't seem to bother Warren all that much. He did a barrel roll and the Vanisher fell away, screaming. He fell half of the forty feet to the ground before he could trigger his teleportational power. Nonetheless, where he landed, he landed hard. 

The Beast found Magneto as he was about to unleash his power against Lorna and Jean, did a double-flip, came down hard with both outsized feet on his foe's purple-caped back, and heard a "Whuff!" as Magneto went down hard on his chest and face. Hank McCoy smiled, but he didn't even pause. He grasped the master villain in both hands and threw him as hard as possible towards his teammates. Magneto hit the ground a second time, trying to get his breath back, planning a deadly attack for the indignity. 

He was abruptly assaulted by burning hellfire and a shrill scream that threatened to split his ears. Banshee and Sunfire were still in the game. 

The master of magnetism rose from the ground, shielded himself with his cape, and raised his hands. At his bidding, the cars stacked round about the area as a barricade rose into the air and hurtled towards the two X-Men. Toshiro and Sean changed their tactics. Sunfire blasted away at the flying vehicles, trying to melt or dissect them before they hit. The Banshee unleashed his sonic blasts, trying to shatter the metallic missles, but it was a straining task. 

This, Magneto decided, had gone on long enough. 

He pointed his right hand at a seemingly-bare patch of ground. It erupted from the force of something emerging beneath it. It was black, metallic, and looked like nothing more nor less than a coffin. At his gesture, it hovered, then moved where he directed. 

It moved swiftly towards Cyclops and Havok. 

The two brothers saw it coming only a second before it separated, lid from body. Alex Summers had time to say, "Cyke, what–" before the object engulfed him. 

Havok was scooped into the body of the coffin. The lid clamped over him. Cyclops immediately blasted it, but it resisted his attack. The coffin soared away, into the air, beyond their reach. The Angel tried to track it, but it eluded him. Even Jean Grey and Lorna Dane were unable to tag it with their powers. 

"What in the de'il's name is happenin'?" cried Banshee. 

Cyclops, who knew exactly what was happening, tried to train his visor on Magneto. But it was already too late. 

The wall of a nearby building which was still standing erupted in stone and steel fury. The eruption was caused by the pressure of a stone-grey figure within, clad in gleaming metallic armor. The figure grew, and grew, and grew. 

"Dear...God," whispered Marvel Girl, and threw an arm up before her face. 

"Jean, what is it? What's happening?" asked Lorna, in terror. 

Magneto, standing atop a mound of rubble, told them. "Almost my final gambit, X-Men. I gave you the chance of alliance. You refused. Then you brought in reinforcements. Very well, I resort to my hidden weapon. I believe you have already met...the Living Monolith." 

And with that, the Monolith, who towered fully thirty feet high, brought his massive fist down in a blow that flattened everything beneath it and scattered everyone within range of it. 

Cyclops had known what was in the offing, after seeing Havok scooped up by the flying coffin. Alex and the villain known, alternatively, as the Living Pharaoh existed in a strange symbiosis. When Alex was cut off from the cosmic rays that powered him, the Pharaoh was transformed into this almost unstoppable titan of destruction. The X-Men had faced him only once, beaten him only by a hair. The real way of doing it was to find and liberate Alex. But Alex was gone. 

The dynamics of battle had changed. 

"X-Men," Cyclops yelled, "retreat! Marvel Girl, Magna, pick up the ones who can't run with your powers. Move it!" 

Then he had to run, himself. The huge foot of the Monolith came down where he had been standing. 

Looking at his fleeing foes and his titanic ally, Magneto smiled, within his helmet. 

It was going to be a good day after all. 

-M- 

PARKER 

I think about the toughest thing about the whole affair for me, up to then, was just waiting. 

The Bugle hit the streets that morning with a headline: SPIDER-MAN WANTS CONFAB WITH NICK FURY. Some people thought Jameson had gone nuts, publicizing for the guy he hated most in the world...well, maybe after Adolf Hitler. But after all, Hitler was dead, and crazy seemed to be the norm that week, and... 

...well, even Jonah had to admit that we needed help. I admitted that I needed help. The whole country needed help. Nobody knew how bad. Not just yet. 

President Nixon had gotten on the horn and declared a national emergency and, as usual, left it to us heroes to take care of things. In the meantime, rioting was going on round-the-clock. Places like Bed-Stuy, Watts, Harlem, all of them were in flames again. Just like it all started, back in 1965. The fire... 

That's getting ahead of myself. 

What did I do with myself? 

Well, after I went to see Jonah, came home to Gwen, had dinner, watched TV, talked, and did what married people do, I slept, got up, had breakfast, and went to work. 

Don't believe all the things you read in Superman comic books. I couldn't just fake an upset stomach, jump into a storeroom, and jump out in my Spidey costume. Not if I wanted to keep my job. I had a work record to uphold, same as you will in a few years, so I tried to keep my mind on my job. It wasn't easy. But, considering I could have blown up a good part of Stark Labs with what I had at hand that day, I managed. 

After 5:30, I phoned up Gwen and told her I'd be in late. She argued with me. There were tears. I had to hang up quick. I know that doesn't paint me in the best light, but that's how it was. I was a dutiful guy. The shame was, I put those duties in front of my duty to my wife. 

I know I've said it a lot: "With great power comes great responsibility." The big problem is finding out which set of responsibilities to put first. I haven't always chosen well. 

But I had a job to do. 

I called the Daily Bugle at a number Jameson had given me. He answered the phone, didn't even bother cussing me out. Just gave me a number he'd been given by, I suppose, an agent of SHIELD. It told me where to go. Not where Jameson would usually have told me to go...just to a rooftop in central Manhattan. So I changed clothes and got swinging. 

The webline jazz got me to the building and my sticky feet and hands got me to the top of it. So I stood there for awhile, looking out at the city, wondering what was supposed to happen. Jameson might have been made a patsy, after all. It might have been a setup from one of my enemies. I was never lacking in those. 

I could see flames from some sections of the city, up where I was. It looked like it was in the poorer neighborhoods, if I was guessing right. I was too far away, and I wasn't much of a fire-fighter as it was. I was there to fight another sort of fire. 

Then the old spider-sense kicked in. It was coming from overhead, so I looked up. No Vulture, none of my enemies who could fly. It was something a lot bigger than that. 

It was the SHIELD heli-carrier. 

It'll be hard to describe it to you kids, but the easiest way of doing it is to tell you it was literally a ship in the air. Like an aircraft carrier and an ocean liner all in one. It was maybe as big as the Enterprise on Star Trek, even though it didn't look like it. It was held up by a bunch of big rotor blades, and don't ask me how. Most of the time it didn't come over Manhattan. It was usually guarded by a fake cloud cover, and it was always guarded by a bunch of aircraft. 

This time, it was coming towards me. 

There is no way you couldn't be awed by that thing. I'd seen a lot in my time...really, I had. I'd been to a separate dimension with Doctor Strange. I'd rassled a flying space capsule to save Jonah Jameson's son. I'd met a ton of bad guys, and most of the good guys. But one of the good guys I'd never met was Nick Fury, and I'd never seen the heli-carrier before. How could a thing so big be up there in the sky without falling? It didn't seem real, much less airworthy. But there it was. 

I had a few thoughts about backing out. But I told them to shut up, and just stood there. 

The carrier came to as much of a stop as it could right over me and the building. Then the spider-sense went off again, and I jumped to face the way it was tingling. It wasn't a threat, just something I was supposed to be aware of. 

There was a little floating monitor in front of me, with a tiny little jet engine in the bottom of it and a whirling prop on top and another one in back of it on a tail. That, I guess, was for directional flight. But I was looking at the face on the monitor. 

The face wore an eye-patch. 

"Spider-Man," he said. "Ain't got time to talk. Get on that purple disk you see on the roof and hold on tight." 

"You Nick Fury?" I said. 

"Nope, I'm Eleanor Roosevelt," he said. "Now get the hell on the disk!" 

So that's what I did. Then a big red beam stabbed down from the bottom of the heli-carrier, and I went up, disc, webs, and all. 

To say the least, it was an uplifting experience. I was uplifted about 1,000 feet into the air. It took under a minute, and before three seconds were gone, I was plastered all over that disc, hanging on firmly by my hands and feet. I'm told you can get used to it, but I wasn't taking any chances. 

I'd like to say that I could see the island of Manhattan getting smaller and smaller below me, but that would be a lie. My eyes were closed. Sure, I was used to swinging on skyscrapers from weblines and duking it out with guys who usually wanted to kill me. But that was stuff I was accustomed to. I just hung on and waited it out. 

Then the disk's progress seemed to slow, just like an elevator losing speed when it gets to your stop. I looked up, since I didn't want to look down. The heli-carrier was above me, all above me. But right over me was a circular port, and an iris door was opening up. That's what admitted me into the carrier. 

A second or so later, the disc stopped moving, a couple of holders came out to catch it and me, the iris door was shut, and the red beam cut off. I was surrounded by a bunch of guys in uniforms with high-tech rifles. They weren't pointed at me, luckily, but I didn't make any fast moves. 

"This the part where I say, 'Take me to your leader?'", I said. 

I had a habit of cracking wise when I was nervous. It tended to work. Rattled my opponents so that they were concentrating more on what I said than what I was about to do. I got better at it as I went along, kinda like starting out as a stand-up comedian. Not that I'm that good, of course, but I kinda fantasied that sometime Woody Allen would be in the crowd watching one of my fights, and I'd hear one of my lines stolen for a movie. No such luck, though. 

Anyway. One of the guys there said, "Don't move, Spider-Man. We are subjecting you to a scan to verify your identity. Please cooperate." 

Since this was SHIELD and not Doc Ock's laboratory, I tried to comply. In about ten seconds, the guy said, "Verified. Please step off the disk." 

I jumped off it and landed in the midst of them. Guns were clacking and pointing at me as soon as I made a two-foot touchdown. That was when I really didn't make a move. 

But I could see the heli-carrier chamber, all metal, plastic, glass, monitors, personnel, guys at monitors, guys with guns, observers from an upper deck, the whole nine yards. It was something out of a Stanley Kubrick nightmare. Even Dr. Doom wouldn't have had the budget for this kind of setup. I was, to say the least, impressed. 

Then one guy in an orange uniform pushed two guards out of his way and came over to me. "Spider-Man?" he said. Remarkable deductive ability, but that's why he was an agent, I guess. 

"When last seen," I said. 

"I'm Agent Gabriel Jones," he said. "Col. Fury wants to see you. Come with me." 

I followed the guy without saying anything else. A few guards followed us saying even less. It wasn't my scene, but it wasn't as much not my scene as, say, the time I had to fight the Big Man, the Enforcers, and their whole crime syndicate in a warehouse. So I coped. 

Down a few hallways, up a few lifts...and when I say lifts, I mean lifts, they operated magnetically, not like elevators...through a few doors and checkpoints, and, finally, past one place where I was x-rayed, gamma-rayed, and everything-else-rayed until my spider-sense was tingling like a third alarm. I told them to cut it out or I was going home. Nobody asked me how I was going to do it. 

Then I finally got to the last checkpoint, through something that amounted to a heavily-defended airlock, with Jones and three guards alongside me. Actually, they were along every side of me. I could have jumped up, clung to the ceiling, and scurried away, but that might have been hazardous to my health. Those agents weren't packing bb's in their rifles. 

I was escorted into a fairly spacious room that looked pretty much like an everyday businessman's office. The guy behind the desk wasn't in his black neoprene suit. He was in a white shirt with the sleeves unbuttoned, a half-done tie, a pair of black pants, regular leather shoes, and, yeah, an eyepatch. His hair was brown, except at the temples, where it'd gone white. He had a cigar in one hand and some papers in the other. I'd seen tough in my day, hard guys like the Sandman, Man-Mountain Marko, the Ox, any number of big and small crooks and super-villains. 

But this guy, somehow, made them look like a package of weenies. 

"Siddown," he said, and waved to a chair in front of the desk with his cigar hand. 

I did, and got back some of my equilibrium. "Hello," I said, with as much aplomb as I was capable of. 

"Heard you wanted to see me," he said. "What about?" 

Fury, I'm told, didn't always beat around the bush that much. He must've liked me. 

"I know about all the hell that's been breaking out, all over the country," I ventured. 

He just gave me the eye and put his cigar in his mouth. Yeah, it sounded stupid and obvious. What else was I supposed to say? 

"Every super-hero I know is out of town," I went on. "You're the only guy I can think of left to link up with. If I can be of help, and I think I can, I'd like to lend a hand." 

The man tried to keep his voice even. "I've got a man down, in sick bay. A guy with a laser just about cut his damn arm off. Think you can help with that?" 

"No," I said. Then I told him, "A group of my old enemies and Daredevil's threw down on me on the docks a day or so ago. Think you can help with that?" 

He took the stogie out of his mouth and looked at me for a long moment. Then he said, "Maybe we can help each other." 

"If you're game, I'm game," I said. 

The colonel stood up and said, "Come with me." I did. Only a couple of guards came with us, and they were a few paces behind. Fury took me through another airlock kind of setup and down another hall. On the way, he talked to me. 

Or maybe he talked at me. 

"I never liked fancy-pantses," he said. "Even back in the war. First one I ever met was Cap. He was more man than I saw anywhere, even back in Hell's Kitchen. But I didn't like the costume." 

"So you gave him fashion tips?" I said. 

"Don't get smart with me, kid," he said. "I've been through too damn much for that. The Kree / Skrull thing, the business with HYDRA, the Hulk trial...I just wanted some peace and quiet. Now this." 

"What is it, Colonel?" 

"Damned if I know, kid," he said. "But it's planned. It ain't random. It just looks that way. I know better, and they know I know better, too." 

"Who's they?" 

"Whoever's behind this," he said. "But I don't know who it is." 

"Doc Doom?" 

Fury shook his head. "Doubt it. My intel has sources even there in Latveria. He's been busy on other stuff. If he'd been plannin' this, it would'a put more of a drain on his time than we know about." 

I thought Doom would be a good candidate. Just about every good guy and bad guy who wore a costume had turned out in '65 to fight at Reed and Sue Richards's wedding, me included, and Doom wasn't among 'em. Reed told me, later, he was pretty sure Doom was behind it, though we never knew for sure. "Who's next runner-up?" 

"That's what I wanna find out," he said. "That's where you maybe can help." 

We went past another checkpoint into what was darned near the biggest room I'd ever seen in my life, up to then. 

Most of it was taken up by a big machine and three people. 

The people were lying on couches with their heads in three helmets which covered their eyes and which were connected to the machine. It looked like Galactus's hairdryer. I can't describe it more than that. It reached up to the ceiling and I was glad it was fastened tightly up there, or it probably would have made mush out of the heads of the three people connected to it. One was a woman and the other two were males. 

"Welcome to the SHIELD ESP division," Fury said. 

"Okay," I said. That was about as profound as I could get. 

Fury pointed to them with his cigar. "These three agents are monitorin' the globe for eight hors a day, tryin' to figure out the next hot spot to go off, what's gonna happen, and what we'll have to do to put it out. We got three others come in after them, and three others after them, in rotation. The ones you're lookin' at are the best of the bunch." 

"What've they been able to figure out?" I asked him. 

"Not enough," Fury told me. "That's where you come in." 

"Me?" I pointed at myself, really surprised. "Hey, man, I swing on webs and fight Doc Ock and jump over small buildings in a single bound, but I hate to tell you this, I'm not Jeanne Dixon!" 

He wasn't perturbed, much. "Shut up and lissen'a me, kid. You got this thing called spider-sense, ain't 'cha?" 

"Of course," I told him. "How'd you find out?" 

"We got ways, kid," he said. "How does it work?" 

"Well," I said, "it alerts me whenever danger is around. Kind of like a tingling I feel. But if you think that's ESP..." 

He looked at me without saying anything. 

"All right, all right, maybe it is a little like ESP," I admitted. "But...you can't hook me into that thing and expect me to..." 

"You said you wanted to help," Fury said. "Got a better idea just now?" 

He had me. 

After that, he took me down to the floor. "We're gonna put you in a receptor," he said. "It won't hurt. Much, anyway." 

I told him that was reassuring. He ignored me. He said, "You'll be hooked up in what they kinda call a gestalt...hell, I'd just call it a combine...with our three aces here. They know what to do, an' they're gonna guide you. You're gonna guide them, too." 

"To what?" I asked. 

"To whatever's causin' whatever is goin' down," he said. "If we're lucky." 

"Colonel," I said, "go ahead and hook me up." 

So three or four guys rolled out what looked like a portable couch with a headset and told me to get on it. I said I wasn't going to take any drugs for this, and they told me I didn't have to. I lay down on it and just before they fitted the gizmo on my head, I turned to Fury. "You do have insurance for this kind of thing, don't you?" 

"Kid, I thought I told you not to get smart," he said, and then just watched. 

A doctor came in from somewhere and took my vital signs. Then they rolled me and the couch over to the main setup, and connected some wires to what amounted to the mainframe. The doc told me to lay back, relax, and close my eyes. I did the first and third. 

For a few seconds, I don't think I saw anything but the backs of my eyelids. 

Then things...changed. 

Three people were saying hello to me in my head. 

My Spidey-sense was going on full-blast. More than full-blast. But it wasn't like it was reacting to some danger. It was like it was being...expanded. I've never taken drugs, but there was a phrase we used back then, sometimes: "mind expansion". I have a feeling the heads back then were just pikers to what I was getting into, just then. I was experiencing the real thing. 

I wasn't exactly seeing three other people as much as I was sensing them. It was more effective than sight. They introduced themselves and told me their names. I won't repeat them to you here. Even this late in the game, I respect a trust. I asked them if they knew who I really was. They said yes, but that they would blot that from their conscious minds. They wouldn't even tell Fury. 

Nobody else had ever learned I was Spider-Man, up to that point. That disturbed me. But somehow, in that environiment, I knew that they couldn't lie to me. So I soldiered on. 

I asked them what I was supposed to do. They said I was supposed to come with them, all over the nation, maybe all over the world, and find out what the source of the problem was. That sounded okay by me. 

It wasn't exactly like being taken by the hand. It was more like swimming in a pool, or kind of lying there while others are holding your arms and swimming to guide you. I guess I was sort of a human mine detector for them. They were using my spider-sense to guide their ESP the way it should go. 

And I suppose it worked. 

We must've started out in New York. I remember my senses going off so much at first there that it almost scared me. But there was always trouble in New York, and we knew it. The Diamond Heads in Harlem, the students up at ESU, maybe more than that, and probably some villains, too. It was hard to guess. I knew we were moving out when the pressure got lesser. 

I don't know the exact procedure of that Magical Mystery Tour. I think I knew we were in places like Dallas and San Francisco because they were thinking of Dallas and San Francisco when we were moving through there. They were thinking of those places because that's when my spider-sense went off. I got impressions of what was going on...not definite, not well-drawn, but impressions. Battle, danger, some people I had known as Spider-Man. And something worse. Something everyone on the other side seemed only half-aware of. 

I guess we went up and down the country several times, though I couldn't testify to it in court. They may have tried overseas, too, but nothing much happened up there. We kept coming back to New York. The worst concentration seemed to be there. So we sifted through it again. 

It was hard to pinpoint stuff. But we went through it, and kept refining our search, kept centralizing it, until my spider-sense made my head feel like the housing of a Concorde jet engine. And I'm not exaggerating much, either. Whatever it was, it was big, it was bad, and it was there. 

About a second after that, objectively speaking, I suppose, they brought me out of it. 

I saw the doctor's and Fury's faces over mine. The colonel looked a lot less hostile, now. He even looked concerned. I guess I couldn't have blamed him. 

"Well, kid? What'd you get?" he asked. 

I shook my head to clear as much of it as I could. Not a lot of what I'd experienced stuck with me all that much, and I was grateful for that. I couldn't imagine somebody taking that for eight hours a day. I hoped they got off weekends. 

The doctor told the colonel to ease off, I wasn't experienced at this. But he just put his hands on my shoulders and said, "Kid...did you get anything?" 

I looked up and told him. 

"New Rochelle," I said. 

"That's where you're going," he said. 

-M- 

Simon Gilbert didn't have a key for his son's house. But he saw the car in the driveway, and he kept beating on it till he heard Gary's voice within. 

"Hi, Dad," said Gary from a door speaker. "Can you come back later? I'm a little busy now." 

"No," Simon answered. "Whatever you're doing, shut it down and let me in." 

"Dad, it isn't a what," Gary said. "It's a who. I'm sure you understand. Come back in an hour, okay?" 

"Gary! Open the blasted door! Quit trying to lie to me." 

"I'm not lying, Dad," the voice said, with a touch of irritation. "I'm very, very busy. This is an important thing I'm doing here." 

"Son," said Simon Gilbert. "Gary. Can you see what I have in my hand?" He held the papers up to the door's spy hole. 

There was nothing for almost ten seconds from within. Then the door lock clickety-clacked, and the door itself opened. 

Gary Gilbert stood there in a leisure suit, smiling at his father. "Okay, Dad. It's great to see you again. Come on in. I'll send out." 

Simon shook his head. "We have a lot to talk about, Gary. A lot." 

Gary shrugged. "So come on in. We'll talk." 

A twinge went through Simon's frame, then, making him remember a moment from World War II. His unit had been doing house-to-house fighting in France. They'd come upon a wine cellar, a particularly spectacular one, and another soldier had put out his hand to pull out a bottle. Something just didn't seem right, although Simon couldn't have told anyone, even himself, just what. He had yelled out a warning and hit the floor, face down. 

His buddy had gotten blown to smithereens by a booby trap. 

But today...well, there was nothing left to do but talk to his son. So he stepped inside. 

Gary closed and locked the door behind him and stood in front of it with arms crossed. Simon turned to him. "Son. These budget figures just don't make sense. There are discreps that add up to...well...millions, if I've figured right. And that's just using an adding machine and pencil and paper." 

Calmly, Gary said, "Who else have you told about this, Dad?" 

"No one, Gary. I want you to explain it to me, and to me alone, before anyone else." 

"I'd be glad to." Gary Gilbert gave a nod in the direction of the other room. Simon Gilbert wondered whether he was directing them to the kitchen, to have the discussion there. 

Instead, a man in hippie regalia came in from that way. He was bearded, long-haired, powerful in the arms and chest, and, most importantly, he was carrying a gun. 

"What's this about?" asked Simon, wishing numbly that he'd hired a bodyguard. 

"Sit down, Dad," said Gary, reasonably. 

"What?" 

"Sit down," Gary repeated. "I think it's time you learned about the Fire." 

To be continued...   
  



	19. Part 19:  What Gary Said To His Father

FIRE! 

Part 19 

by DarkMark 

Everyone in Greenwich Village had seen Dr. Strange at some time or another, sometimes with his working outfit on. Most of the time, though, he went out in a regular suit, sometimes in an overcoat and hat. Not too many people paid a call on the brownstone with the strange circular window on top which Strange called home. He wanted it that way. 

He also had a way with concealment spells. That was why the hippies, cab drivers, pedestrians, and other folk who passed by just saw Strange in a normal outfit and three other guys with him in regular clothes. One of them looked big enough to work for a professional football team, or maybe to be a professional football team. But nobody asked their business, and they didn't offer any comments to the John Q's. 

As they approached the building, Strange hesitated. Something wasn't right. Nothing anybody else would pick up, probably. Perhaps something only in his imagination. But when one was a Master of the Mystic Arts, one learned, very often, to trust one's imagination. 

"Namor, Surfer, Hulk," said Strange, lowly, "be on guard. I fear something may be awry inside." 

The Sentinel of the Spaceways, clad in the disguise of hat, dark glasses, overcoat, pants, and shoes he wore when he walked among men, raised his hand and pointed it at the door. From his fingertips, an invisible spray of energy issued, entering the building and probing it. His blank eyes widened behind his shades. "Strange," he said. 

A second later, the door exploded and the Surfer was bowled over by a huge green gargoyle that knocked him on his back. "Long time no kill, Surf-boy," remarked the Abomination. "But I'm really here for the Hulk." 

The Silver Surfer blasted him away with a double-burst of power from his hands. The Hulk, his disguise fading in an instant, roared and went at the Abomination, but got a foot in the face for his troubles. Namor hurled himself into the fray, but was caught in mid-leap by the brutal force of a flying body. As both were borne to the pavement, scattering passers-by and a cop, Namor looked up into the face of Tiger Shark. 

"Thought we were done, didn't 'cha, Subby?" grinned the gill-faced villain. "We're just gettin' started." 

Dr. Strange had both hands upraised and began an incantation. "In the name of the immortal, three-faced Vishanti..." 

A bolt of eldritch power shot from the brownstone's doorway and caught him in the chest, knocking him sprawling into the street, where he barely dodged an oncoming Buick. In the background, through his pain, Strange could hear the voices of people talking, shouting, screaming. His disguise spell had been breached. Now, people knew about him. 

They knew the Hulk, the Sub-Mariner, and the Silver Surfer were among them, too. 

A huge, brutal-looking, bare-chested bald man in gray pants, holding a ball and chain in one hand, had rushed from the door towards the Surfer. The hero from Zenn-La raised his hand to defend himself. That was okay by the attacker. He grabbed Norrin Radd's hand, and began ingesting the Surfer's power. 

His skin began to acquire a silvery tone, and his eyes went wide. 

"Never tasted anything like this before," he noted. "Where ya been all my life, Surfey?" 

Strange got to a sitting position in the street, still hurting in the chest, and looked up at another enemy soaring towards him by the power of levitation. He knew the man's face better than any other of his foes'. 

"Welcome to the first effort of the Masters of Menace, Strange," said Baron Mordo. "One should be all it takes." 

-M- 

Noah Bernstein had dealt with super-heroes and their friends before. Being the major domo of Howard Hughes, he'd dealt with anybody he'd had to. 

Mostly, it was buying things from the brainy guys who had things the company needed. He'd gone to the Baxter Building to cut deals with Reed Richards. He'd been to Tony Stark's Long Island plant many a time, to get what the boss required from S.I,, and had even met Iron Man. Henry Pym he judged to be a dumber man than many of the others he'd dealt with, business-wise: Hughes had simply bought several of Pym's patents when Pym needed the money. Nothing like the growth-altering systems Pym had pioneered, although Bernstein wasn't betting against Pym yielding them up if the fat met the fire one day. But he had a rich wife now, and he was able to hold onto more than he had in the past. 

Stark Industries, though...now, there was the prize plum of Bernstein's career, and thus of Hughes's. Get the fee from that deal, and Noah could afford to retire. Even though he wouldn't, of course. Mr. Hughes wouldn't have stood for it. 

The problem with Stark, as Noah saw it, stemmed from that trip he made back in '63 to Viet Nam. Well, that would've shook up anybody, and Noah knew all about shook-up billionaires. But even Howard hadn't gotten wounded in the chest by shrapnel while making an on-site check of weaponry he'd sold the government. Stark had come back from that, with Iron Man, his new bodyguard, in tow, but everybody who dealt with him knew Tony had changed. 

It was a hell of a lot different world in '72 than it had been nine years ago. That Viet Nam mess had blown up into a full-fledged disaster, and Stark was too easy a target for protesters, with his weapons and his money. Compared to that, Howard's problems with that idiot Irving were nothing. Of course, Howard had his own problems. But he wasn't losing control of his empire. 

But just days after Stark had agreed to talk a deal, he'd dropped out of sight. As far as anybody knew, he was running his ship by telephone. Probably he was out covertly with Iron Man, in that big fight the Avengers (and God only knew who all else) had gotten into. Noah was thankful Hughes had never had any super-heroes on the payroll. 

Still, dammit, business was business, and Stark ought to know that. If he didn't come through fast, the deal would bloody well fall through. Even on a telephone, even through reps (and Noah knew all about reps, being one himself), the sale of Stark to Hughes could be made within days. 

That is, if Stark didn't keep putting him off until "after the present crisis was over." Hell, he ought to know business went on no matter what crisis was going on. Wars, famines, plagues, maybe even the coming of the Messiah. Even this crazy rioting the schwartzes and the kids were doing all over the country. Even with all the idiots in costumes conducting maneuvers against themselves. 

He'd tried getting in touch with Stark again, over his private number. A secretary had patched him through, and Noah had gotten Stark on the line, even though his voice sounded tinny. He'd done everything except get down on his knees and beg, and if Stark could have seen that over a telephone, Noah would have done that, too. But Stark put him off again. He said he'd have a final decision for him within ten days. As far as Noah was concerned, that was nine days too long. But Stark had stonewalled, and Noah had to give up. 

That tinny voice still bugged him. 

As much an electronics genius as Stark was supposed to be, couldn't he get a decent phone system? 

-S- 

"What in the devil is this?" 

Simon Gilbert had asked the question, but he wasn't sure he wanted to know what he asked. 

"I'm about to tell you, Dad, if you'll give me a minute," said Gary, standing there impassively. "Of course, it might take more than a minute, but you know what I mean." 

Simon looked at his son, and, more importantly, at the man standing beside him. He looked like a parody of Che Guevara with a few more muscles, but the man had a gun, and Simon Gilbert didn't. Nonetheless, this was his son he was talking to. He got up from the chair they had given him. 

"Mr. Gilbert," said Graine, not at all reasonably. 

The industrialist bristled. "Son, tell him to put that thing away." 

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Dad," said Gary, quietly. 

Simon stared at his son, open-mouthed. "Gary," he said when he found his voice. "Tell me the truth. He's holding you hostage, too. Isn't that right?" 

"Uh, no, Dad. I'm afraid we're both holding you hostage. Only it's not exactly a hostage situation. Just let me explain." 

"Explain what? I come to the house of my son, and a man holds a gun to my chest and now, now you say you're...what, working with him? Gary? Gary!" 

"Mr. Gilbert," said Graine, handling the gun, "please sit down." 

Simon Gilbert looked at the gunman, then at his son, and kept his eyes fixed on Gary. The latter had such a cold expression. Like the face one of Hitler's torturers must have had, Simon thought, when he was only doing his job. 

"Son..." 

"Sit. Down." Graine came forward and pushed Simon into the chair. He withdrew two steps, still watching the older man. 

Gary stepped a bit closer, his arms folded. "Maybe, Dad, I should start out by asking you just what you discovered." 

Simon Gilbert took a deep breath and tried to think of anything but the gun. "None of your budget holds water, Gary. Not to my eye. There's millions of dollars padded in there." 

"Over 26 million, to be precise. And more where that came from." 

"Why?" 

Gary Gilbert smiled, slightly. 

"Because there is a thing called Destiny, Dad. Because you and I are very much a part of it. Let me tell you all about what I do." 

Pulling up another seat and sitting before his father, Gary began. 

"The money has been going to fund a project. You've seen the super-villain riots all over the country on TV? The riots, too?" 

Simon Gilbert tried to wet his mouth with his tongue and failed. "You're a part of that?" 

"To be precise, I organized it. We helped pay for it." 

Simon tried to leap up from his chair. Quicker than thought, Graine's gun was in his face. The businessman hesitated, breathing hard, than sat down. He said, "I thought you'd changed." 

Gary nodded. "Well, I have. I found out overt action doesn't work against a powerful enemy. Covert action does. It works incredibly well." 

The older man's face twisted. "How can you have done this? How can you have done it, and still be my son?" 

The younger man looked very, very serious. "Precisely because I am your son, dad. Because I'm no longer bound by the misperceptions of your generation. Because I can see the truth. And, having seen it, I have to act on it." 

"Seen the truth!" Simon was up from his chair without even thinking of it. Graine was there, trying to push him down, but Simon was trying to claw past him, to get at Gary. "What truth? Have you seen what the Communists really do, dammit? Have you seen all the misery and bloodshed they've created in this century? Have you seen the Berlin Wall, and the gulags, and the...the graves of the American boys they've killed in Viet Nam and Korea? Boys just like you?" 

"Mr. Gilbert, sit down," snapped Graine, and hit him in the jaw. 

Gilbert yelped, sat down–sprawled, actually–on the green pile carpet, and got up to a more dignified position, wiping his mouth and feeling wetness dripping. 

"That's why I'm doing what I'm doing," said Gary Gilbert. "Because of those thousands of men like me who've died in Viet Nam. And Korea. And Europe, and the Pacific, and all over. In a short time, Dad, things are going to be reordered. They'll be grateful to both of us. Me, for what I'll do. You, for being my father. Trust me. It will happen." 

Simon Gilbert grasped the arm of the chair in which he had been sitting and dragged himself back into it. "Tell me. Everything." 

Gary pulled up a chair not far from his father, facing him, and sat down. "That's just what I'm about to do," he said. 

Silently, Simon waited. 

"You knew something of what I was into in college, Dad," said Gary. "The what, but not the why. I had my eyes opened there. Everything they didn't want to teach us in grade school, we learned in college. All about the massacres, the slavery, the injustice, the inequality, the..." 

"Get to the point," said Simon. 

"All right, then, Dad. All right. I'll get to the point. Matter of fact, I got to it long, long ago. I first got to it at age 11, when I was reading about the atomic bomb and what it had done to Japan. And I thought: what if enough people there had made a stand, and had refused to fight for the Emperor?" 

"They couldn't. He was their god." 

"But what if they had? What if they'd said to him, 'You're our god, but you're wrong. We won't fight for you.' Would they have had to suffer the bomb? Twice? Or even once?" 

"That's insane. You're positing something that's a total fiction. You weren't living then, you weren't living there. You don't know..." 

"Oh, but I do!" Gary's eyes blazed with terrible light. "True, most people are going to be good little zombies. Even the ones that follow me...no offense, Graine." 

"None taken," said Graine, still holding his gun ready. 

"But the ones who do know, who can perceive, they can make a difference. What if the scientists working for the Manhattan Project had realized what they were about to do, and refused to do it?" 

"They wouldn't. They knew Hitler and the Japanese were working on the bomb, too. And they would have used it." 

"And so they would have, unless the scientists working there realized what they were doing, and..." 

"And Hitler would have had their cojones for it. The Japs would have tortured their scientists, most likely. My God, son, what in the hell were they teaching you in college? What were they teaching you all in college? The teachers there must have worshiped the New Deal so much, they never saw any of its flaws." 

"Oh, they saw its flaws, all right, but they also saw its virtues. But that's not what it's about, Dad. Forget the New Deal. It's over and done. Even the revolution's about to be over and done." 

"The revolution." Simon started to get up, but the gun waved meaningfully in his direction. Almost trembling, he sat down again. 

"The revolution," said Gary. "I learned the spark of it from a guy in college who didn't even know what he was talking about. He thought you could make a revolution against the United States with overt military action, or violent protest. Wrong. This country is impregnable from both directions. I did my bit, just to show I was sincere, and I got maced for it. That confirmed my knowledge that this wasn't the proper way." 

Simon Gilbert looked at his son, and had a vision of Lenin in a London library, doing research on elements of destruction. But he held his peace. 

"I looked at the individuals who were getting the headlines," Gary continued. "Presidents. Politicians. Dictators. But outside of them and the movie stars, who were getting the biggest play? Super-heroes. Super-villains. They were as big as the Beatles. Constant entertainment, and the only price you paid was higher taxes to replace the property they destroyed in their fights. That was the way. I knew it, when I was finally led to it. I guess I could say, the New York Times got me my job." 

Simon shook his head. He could have made a comment, but he chose not to. 

"I took what I knew of engineering and electronics from our side, then I went to Stark's training programs and learned all he had to give me. My inspiration was twofold. First, there was Captain America. Don't laugh, Dad." 

"I'd never laugh at Cap," said Simon. "He was the flag made flesh and blood for all the men of my generation. Especially the ones at the front." 

"And so he was," said Gary, seriously. "That was what our side needed: a Captain America for the cause. So I would be their Captain America. My second inspiration was Stark's armored lackey himself: Iron Man. He was the Captain America of capitalism and industrialism. He also had a suit which made him more than human. Either something he'd made for himself, or which Stark had made for him. Something he had made to make himself a super-hero. That was what I chose to do, to become a super-hero for the Revolution. That's why I made myself the Firebrand." 

"The who?" Simon Gilbert looked at his son in true confusion. 

Gary actually showed honest emotion. "You never heard of me? How can you not have heard of the Firebrand?" 

Graine looked disgusted. "Fine thing. Your own dad never heard of your secret identity." 

"You were some kind of super-villain?" Simon Gilbert shook his head. "There are hundreds of those. I never kept up with any of them." 

For an instant, Gary looked deflated. Then he threw up his hands. "All right. It isn't like I had a big, long career. I wasn't a super-villain, though. I was a super-hero for the Revolution. Tried helping out some blacks in a property dispute, got into a fight with Iron Man, and made that running dog look pretty damned bad. I was the one who ended up running away, though. From that, I learned another lesson: that, if I kept up my career as Firebrand, I'd be nothing more than another headline. More entertainment for the masses. I would accomplish practically nothing other than that. So I put away my armor, and I started to think even more." 

"In the wrong way," said Simon. 

"You think any way but your own, any way but America's present way, is the wrong way," said Gary. "Ever take a look at the Third World countries, Dad? The starvation they experience there, because the First World is using up their resources?" 

"They're experiencing starvation because of the stupidity of their governments," responded Simon. "Most are living under dictators. They're the ones that hoard the money we give them." 

"Then why do you give them the money?" 

"Because we need what they have in order to function," said Simon. "The raw materials, in order to manufacture what we need, what the world needs, and give it back to them." 

"Exactly!" Gary jumped up in triumph. "So you see it, now. It's because America neglects its responsibility to the people of the Third World that the Third World is allowed to starve." 

"And how in hell is America supposed to exercise that responsibility?", Simon snapped. "By going to war with those countries? You kids scream enough when we make war against a Communist enemy. How eager would you be to go to war in Africa, against those blacks you claim to love so much over here?" 

"You just don't see it, Dad," said Gary, disappointedly. "After all this, you really just don't see." 

"I see a lot more than you think I do," said Simon. "I see all the illusion you've based your life on, how insubstantial, how fragile it is. You think you can see through us, but that's just because you've never had a mirror good enough to look at yourself." 

"Maybe we're just two competing sets of illusions," said Gary. "But I have the power to make mine real. And I will." 

"Yours will never be real," said Simon. "They've tried it before, son. Under Lenin. Under Mao. Under Castro. Under all those little sub-dictators. Hell, even under Hitler." 

"Don't you compare me to him!" Gary was out of his seat, pointing an accusing finger at his father. "Don't you ever mention Hitler in conjunction with me. We're doing this absolutely against the spirit of Hitler. We're doing it in the spirit of the new age, of the new era, of the..." 

"Of the new Reich?" said Simon. "You decide what's to be done, who's to be killed? You play God, just like Hitler tried to do? You got plans for all those who don't fit into your little..." 

Gary sprinted to his father in the time of an unleashed thought and slapped him, hard, across the face. Simon Gilbert, chair and all, fell backward and hit the floor. Graine was immediately at Gary's side. Gary was panting. 

"Don't. Ever. Make. That. Comparison. AGAIN." 

"You..." 

"DON'T!" 

"Mr. Gilbert," said Graine, training his gun on Simon. "I think you'd better sit down and shut up." 

Simon trained his gaze on Graine, even though his own mouth was freshly bleeding. "You," he said. "Don't you realize what you're about to do? What he's about to do? Don't you have any feelings for your own country?" 

Graine said nothing. Eventually, Simon righted his chair and sat back down in it. 

"Well," said Gary, regaining control of himself. "Well, to begin again: after I fought Iron Man, I knew that overt action was a mistake. Only covert action would be the viable way. That was when I got back into the family business, Dad. That's when I decided to make you proud." 

Silently, Simon sat there. There was nothing left to do, it seemed, other than let Gary finish his story. 

Gary said, "The Revolution could only be made as if by a magician's trick. Britain employed stage magicians in World War II to show them how to fool the Nazis. I didn't need anybody in a top hat to show me how to pull this one off. It just took planning, secrecy, and a lot of money. The company would give me the only thing I really needed: the money. 

"I saw the opportunity coming. Stark pulled out of munitions, and you pulled out of Stark even before that. We picked up the contracts. We made better weapons than even he did. Uncle Sam loves us, Dad. He loves us to death. 

"And I siphoned off just enough money to put my organization, such as it is, together. The public wants super-heroes fighting super-villains? Fine. I'd give them that. The problem was that they were never organized. They'd fight little brushfire battles against their chosen heroes, maybe get together in a gang of six or so, but, outside of those ill-advised attempts they periodically made to take over the world, none of them really thought big enough. They could spend all the money in the world on their elaborate deathtraps, their deadly machines, and all they'd get out of it would be a broken jaw and a trip to the slammer. They'd do that over and over again, and none of them ever thought outside of that box. Not even Doctor Doom. 

"So I tempted them all with money, with revenge, with power, and put them all together into a syndicate that I promised them would end up ruling America, and then the world. They all think they're going to knock me off afterward, then go to war on each other to find out who's the biggest stick on the block. But they'll never get that chance." 

"You'll...see that they don't live that long?" Simon could barely believe he got the sentence out. 

Gary grinned. "You're catching up, Dad. Everything is planned to perfection. Simply by being very, very smart. Smarter than the average super-villain. Smarter even, perhaps, than Doctor Doom and Magneto and the Mandarin. But they're only part of the illusion. 

"The second part is the revolutionaries themselves. The students on the New Left, the blacks in the Panthers, the Diamond Heads, and the ones who just don't like Whitey and want to do something about him, some of the Old Lefties that heard of what we're doing and want to get in on it. Oh, yes, they all have their part to play. All of them, and none of them are watching the magician's hands. They don't even know where they are." 

Simon shook his head. "Black magic." 

Gary nodded, soberly. 

After a moment, Gary resumed. "Any more questions?" 

"What about Russia? What about China? You think they'll sit around on their hands while this is being done?" 

"There are plans for Russia as well," said Gary. "Trust me. As for China, they can fend for themselves. The upset in the world balance will push them off-kilter as well. As for me, there's a part I have to play, also. There's a thing called the Fire, Dad. I'm going to light the Fire." 

That was the last thing Simon Gilbert consciously listened to. 

He never believed in the phenomenon some novelists called "red rage" in the adventure stories he'd read as a youth. As if a curtain of blood came down in front of the afflicted person's vision and negated his reasoning, stopped him from thinking, made him an Amok only directed against the enemy, no matter what the cost to himself. 

Of course, that was all before he heard about the Fire. 

Simon's next conscious thought was that, somehow, he had his son down on the floor, had his fingers wrapped about Gary's throat, and was banging his head against the floor as hard as he could. It seemed to be hurting Gary, the carpet notwithstanding. The strangling certainly seemed to be. Gary had his hands on Simon's wrists and, for all his striving, didn't seem to be able to pry them loose. Somebody was shouting something incoherent. Simon was certain that it wasn't him, because he didn't judge himself capable of speech at the moment, but he had to admit that it sounded like a passable imitation of him. Especially when he was in rage. 

That was the last thing he thought. 

There was a sound that drowned out even the shapeless screaming. Did it happen before or after the incredible pain and heat? Impossible to tell. 

The redness and the face of his son faded faster than the picture of a clicked-out TV set. The pain peaked in an incredible instant. Then it, too, faded. 

What remained of Simon Gilbert fell limply across the bloodied body of his son. 

David Graine looked at the two of them, framed by blood and spattered brains, smelled his smoking gun, and waited. 

After a second, Gary Gilbert began to cry. 

Graine watched him clutch the inert body of his father, still open-eyed and seeing everything and nothing, and listened to him sob, watched him put his own cheek against the bloody cheek of Simon Gilbert. Actually, Graine wanted to puke. But he decided to save that till later on, when he had some spare time. 

Gary cried. He cried for a very long time. David Graine got a chair for himself and sat down in the next room, waiting things out. True, he did what he must. But that didn't mean he had to stay around and watch the afterleavings for hours on end. 

It seemed like an eternity later, but, checking his watch, Graine knew that it was only ten minutes since the murder before Gary came in to see him. His eyes were glassy, like those of a prize-fighter who doesn't realize he's just won a ten-rounder. 

Gary stood looking at him for a long time with that stare. 

"I'm sorry," Graine said, finally. 

"You did," Gary said, with a supreme effort, "what you had to do." 

Then his fingers went under the lapel of his reddened coat. Graine's eyes widened behind his shaded glasses, knowing what was being reached for. He leaped up. "Boss, no," he said. "The Revolution. It can't get along without you. It isn't done yet. Don't kill yourself!" 

The gun spoke. 

David Graine couldn't think of anything to say. 

Gary caught him as he fell forward. 

Actually, part of his mind thought, it wasn't as though the guy was going to mess up his suit any worse. 

-M- 

The X-Men, old and new, had retreated to the police lines, which were drawing further and further away from the area Magneto, the Monolith, and their coterie had claimed as their own. The large group of costumed mutants could see the Monolith, standing in the distance with his arms folded, among what was left of the skyscrapers the Brotherhood had partially or wholly leveled. He wasn't making any move yet, probably because he figured he didn't have to. 

Cyclops was talking on a plug-in phone to the mayor of Dallas. The old team was mingling with the new team, conferring with their old friends, trying not to sound like know-it-alls and having little success at that. Iceman had tried to console Magnetica for the loss of Havok, but she told him to go away. After that, Jean, who had been talking friendly-fashion with Lorna, turned a cold shoulder to her. The Beast was helping Sean tend to the Mimic, who was still hors de combat. Sunfire was standing by himself, arms folded, facing the Monolith in an imitation of his stance. It seemed a gesture of defiance. 

"I wouldn't exactly say we blew it, sir," said Cyclops. "It'll just take a little more time. No, I don't know how much time. Well, sir, I wouldn't know what kind of weapon you'd use on him. Short of a tactical nuke...no. No, sir, I am not at all advocating the use of nuclear bombs in the heart of Dallas. That's just an expression, sir. Just an expression... Well, I don't like it much, either. He's got my teammate captive. But the X-Men have usually... Well, sir... It's like this. We know the problem. We've dealt with it before. We've... Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I know. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Yes, sir. Goodbye." 

Marvel Girl came up to him as he slammed down the phone. "Trouble, Cyke?" 

He set his mouth in a sour expression. "Apparently the mayor of Dallas isn't as impressed with our work as Hizzoner was in New York. He said he wants us to get 'that Big Tex imitation out of my city, and do it now'. Those weren't his exact words." 

"I can imagine." 

One of the cops nearby said, "This is really both our jobs, sir. We're here to protect Dallas. These guys may be your old opposition, but it's our responsibility." 

"I realize that, sir," said Cyclops, trying to sound reasonable. "The bottom line is, we're trying to save lives here. When the X-Men and the Brotherhood fights, nobody gets killed on either side. So far." 

"So far," echoed the policeman, dubiously. 

"This has usually been a combination of two things," Cyclops continued. "One, the X-Men don't fight to kill. Two, we know how to protect ourselves. But if your men go in there, they've got guns, and their only option is to use them." 

"Maybe they got a different way of doing things in New York," said the cop. "Let me tell you how it is here in Dallas. Somebody gets crazy out here, starts endangering people's lives and their property, we give him a choice: come out with his hands up or with his toes pointin' to the sky. When we lock people up here, they stay locked up till their sentence is done. The way I understand it, where you come from, they let 'em out about four times a year each so you can have a whoop-up with 'em. Down here, they get one chance, and that's all they get. And the people of Dallas expect us to keep order in this town." 

"Think you can take down that one there with guns?" Cyke pointed to the Monolith. 

"Think we'll have to use everything we can," admitted the officer. "We will, too." 

"Against Magneto, you'd be better off using wooden clubs. He'll also lift you by your belt buckles and dump you from as high a point as he wants." 

"So? You got any better ideas? We ain't got time to wait no more." 

Cyclops didn't have anything to say for a moment. Then he said, "Give us thirty minutes to handle this. If we can't do it...you take your shot. But do it from a distance." 

"You've got fifteen." 

"Twenty." 

"Go for it, Mr. X," said the policeman. "But if I lose my badge over this, you get to testify in my behalf." 

Cyclops walked away from him, and towards the perimeter of their impromptu settlement. "X-Men," he called loudly. "Huddle for planning. Now." 

"He is not our leader," bristled Sunfire, concealing the pain in his hurt arm. 

"He is now," said Banshee, "and don't you forget it." 

The group of mutants clustered about Cyclops as he outlined what he had for a plan, tersely. He ended with, "Forget the division. We're not old X-Men. We're not new X-Men. We're just the X-Men today, and that's what we have to be. A unit. Understood?" 

A chorus of yeses and equivalents came from the group members. Cyclops turned towards Sunfire meaningfully. The Japanese mutant nodded, briefly. "All right. Let's go," said Scott, and waved in the general direction of the Monolith.   


Magneto scanned the enemy camp with a pair of conventional binoculars. "They're coming," he muttered. 

"Gives us something to do," answered Juggernaut, grinding one hand into his other palm. "As long as Monny leaves us enough." 

The other members of the Brotherhood looked at Magneto with anticipation. For his part, Magneto adjusted his helmet and sighed. "Damn them. They never would listen to reason." 

"That's kind of the thing my uncle Louie would say, sometimes," noted Unus. "He was in the rackets." 

"Silence!" 

The Vanisher, not far away, looked on the master of magnetism and held his peace. He hadn't worked with Magneto for very long, but he was liking it less and less as time went by. Once the fight was over and things were sorted out, it might be time to simply...vanish. 

The Blob, rubbing dirt between his hands and brushing them off afterward, said, "Let 'em come. We've had enough kay-fabing around here. It's time for those guys to take some permanent bumps." 

"Give us the word, Magneto," said Juggernaut. "You're the man on this op." 

The man in red and purple paused a long time, watching the group of dots grow larger with every second and resolve themselves into recognizable costumed figures. They were his Scylla, the men at his back were his Charybdis. He always knew the burdens of power, and with power comes the necessity for great decisions. Whether one liked them or not. 

"Let them get closer," he ordered. "Then...kill them." 

He glanced at the towering leg of the Living Monolith, nearby. It would be unnecessary to give him any orders. 

Magneto turned to his right, expecting to see Mastermind around. Of all the coterie about him, Jason Wyngarde was his oldest associate. It didn't make him a friend, but Magneto knew he could depend on the illusionist's fear. 

The problem was, Mastermind wasn't in sight. 

While Magneto had his head turned, he heard Unus speak. "Magneto...look!" 

He whipped his head back around to see. As he saw, his eyes went wide. The helmet he wore only partly concealed his shock. 

Somewhere around 100 X-Men were coming at them. 

There were at least five Cyclopses, and about as many Marvel Girls, Beasts, flying Angels, Banshees, Sunfires, Icemen, Magneticas, and even a small squad of Mimics. All of them seemed to be moving independently, but they were moving so well it was impossible to tell the real from the imitations. If there were imitations. 

"Mastermind," breathed Magneto. Then, loudly: "MASTERMIND!" 

The others, unconscious of the mesmerist's absence before, quickly looked in all directions for him. He was gone. Or if he was there, he was shielded by illusion. 

"What gives, Mags?" asked the Blob, incredulously. "What's happenin'?" 

"Isn't it obvious, you bloated idiot?" retorted Magneto. "The red-headed witch has gained mental control of him. She's harnessing his illusion power against us. MONOLITH!" 

The grey-skinned titan turned his head. It was uncannily like seeing the Sphinx respond to a questioner, if such a thing was imaginable. "YES?" There was no mistaking the tone of arrogance in the single word. 

"Stamp as many of them as you can! That'll sort out the true from the false...if any of them live afterward." 

"ARE YOU TRYING TO GIVE ME ORDERS, LITTLE MAN?" 

The other Brotherhood members, from Juggernaut on down, tensed. If the big guy turned on Magneto, every one of them was going to make a fast fade to Fort Worth and parts further out. 

"DO IT!" yelled Magneto, pointing at the X-horde almost upon them. 

Luckily, the Monolith had more against the X-Men than he did against Magneto. He swung one towering leg out, over fifteen feet in diameter, and smashed its metal-sandaled foot towards the X-Men. 

Then he slipped on a huge slide of ice that formed under his foot, fell backwards, flailing his arms comically, and hit with a WHUMP that took over a building behind him, jarred almost everyone off of their feet, and made for a hefty bonus for the newshawk on the perimeter, catching it with a film camera and telescopic sight. 

"Go! Go! Go!" hollered Cyclops, pointing forward and spearheading the charge. The illusionary heroes quickly faded and only the originals were left. The X-Men split up, each one seeking a predetermined target. Cyke's impromptu strategy had to work, and quickly, or every one of them could expect to become fillet of mutant. 

But then, Marvel Girl thought, Scott's plans had a habit of working out. So far. She crossed the fingers of her right hand and sent out another mental command: Mastermind. Sleep.> 

"Yes...sleep...", said an apparently disembodied voice not far from the Blob. It was followed by a yawn, and, seconds later, a reclining and dozing Mastermind was seen fading into view on the ground. The Brotherhood didn't have time to take note of him for very long. 

Magneto raised his hands and pointed them at the enemy. This time, nothing would be held back. Xavier's men had refused to parley. What ensued would be upon their heads. His hands were circled by a dim nimbus of purplish energy. 

Then his whole body was enveloped in flame. 

Despite himself, Magneto screamed and rolled, using his power to dredge up iron-bearing soil around him and snuff the fire. He wasn't badly burned, but it hurt like hell. 

Sunfire, above him, launched another bolt. It connected, heating the metal of Magneto's helmet to a terrific degree. Clenching his teeth, the master of evil mutants grabbed his metallic mask with gloved hands, felt them and the flesh beneath them sizzle, and tore his helmet away, throwing it onto the ground. It was heated to whiteness. Magneto's hands were seared. Worse, the heat retarded his magnetism. His white-haired visage showed the pain, and he dared not open his mouth for fear the cry of agony that would come forth would never be stopped. 

"Die, you unclaimed bastard," said Sunfire, and meant it. He unleashed more torrents of atomic flame at his foe. 

Magneto, blinded by pain and fire, sought to track his foe by magnetic imaging and tore more girders and metallic fragments from the battle site, hurling them skyward. But as he did so, another girder smashed him from behind and knocked him flat on his face. Others joined in the attack, battering him despite his hastily erected magnetic shield. He tried to gain control of the weapons used against him, but the beating and Sunfire's continued attack left him too weak. 

It couldn't end this way, he told himself. It simply couldn't. Destiny would not see fit to thwart him again. 

But that was his last conscious thought, as another powerful blow rendered him senseless. 

Sunfire lit on the ground beside his partner in combat, Lorna Dane. "Is he finished?" asked Toshiro. 

"Only unconscious, I think," said Magnetica. "But there's a lot more bad guys to go." 

Not far away, the Beast was engaged in baiting another one. That was about all he could do, as the Blob seemed about as vulnerable to his attack as the Rocky Mountains. He hopped nimbly about the obese adversary, trying to stay just barely out of his way. "One would think you would feel indubitably flattered, Blob," said the Beast, on the fly. "I came out of retirement just for you." 

"Ah'm about to put you back there, permanent-like," said the Blob, grabbing futilely for the Beast's foot. "Stand still, blast ya! Fight like a man!" 

"But would I be a prudent mutant to do that?" asked the red-and-blue clad Hank McCoy. "Honor I have, but self-preservation is always utmost in my mental sphere...uh!" 

His cry came from being snagged about his huge ankle by the Blob's fingers, each of which seemed about as big as a tube of toothpaste. Family size, the Beast mentally amended. Grinning, Fred Dukes balled his other hand into a fist and swung it at the Beast's head. 

The Beast responded by pulling a plastic packet from his belt and throwing it at the Blob's eyes. 

It burst open and engulfed the Blob's orbs in a painful, burning sensation. The Beast easily ducked the Blob's blow, which went as wild as his scream of pain sounded. And while the Blob had his mouth wide open, the Beast went for another package from his belt, pulled it forth, and stuffed it down the Blob's gullet. He got his hand out before the Texan mutant could bite it. 

The Blob swallowed hard, almost choking before he could respond. He still held the Beast fast. "You," he offered, loggily. "You sonuvvatwo-headed-rattlesnake, what'dja...what'dja..." 

"Something I got from the X-Craft, in the same medicine cabinet where I got the irritant," explained the Beast. "It's a really efficient anaesthetic. Wouldn't you say?" 

The Blob really wasn't capable of saying much. He'd been fed enough sleeping medicine to prepare five normal men for surgery. His eyes crossed and he began to have a vision of his mother cradling him, at a time before he had punched her in the face. 

Then he fell backward, which the Beast was grateful for, as he didn't want to have to dig his way out from under his foe. 

"Score one for brains and preparedness over brawn," remarked Hank, as he pried his ankle loose from the Blob's fingers. "Sleep tight, my oviparous opponent." 

The Juggernaut found two opponents facing him: the lily-livered Irishman, the Banshee, and that gimp who'd tried to give him a good fight before and was still limping from it, the Mimic. "You have just got to be kidding me," he said. "Charlie sent you both out here on a suicide mission?" 

"Nah, y' ignorant spawn of a peat bog," replied Banshee. "He just didn't think it'd take more'n the two of us to take ya. Come at us, now. I'll even stay on the ground for ya." 

"Got to be a trick," said the Juggernaut, putting his head down. "But y'know what? I don't really give a damn. Here I come, lugnuts!" 

He charged. 

The Juggernaut had been expecting the Mimic to try and copy his power again when he got close. In that, he was mistaken. By the time Cain Marko took his first step, both the Banshee and the Mimic had their mouths open, and they were directing high-pitched screams of sonic force at him from two directions. 

He was being attacked in stereo. 

Marko shouted in rage and pain. His helmet could protect him from mental attacks, but he had to hear in order to function. So he was vulnerable to an attack by sound, and that was exactly what Irish and his kid partner were giving him. The only way out of it was to knock them both down. He made for the kid. 

The kid stepped to the side and screamed harder. So did Irish. The sound was affecting the Juggernaut's equilibrium. He found it harder to stay balanced. And, dammit, the noise was driving him insane! 

Turning with difficulty, the Juggernaut next tried charging at the Banshee. It took him twice the effort it usually did, and he noted he was traveling half as fast as normal. True to his word, the Banshee didn't fly into the air. He just sidestepped Cain's charge and let him go by. The sonic blasts were affecting Marko's ability to aim his charges. Hell, he was barely able to keep standing up! 

The Mimic had also turned to pinpoint his own copied sonic blast at the Juggernaut. When Marko finally got his footing again, he was still bombarded with the double noise beam. It hurt. 

It took three more charges, but the massive malevolent finally became so confused he wasn't able to figure out which way to move. He turned this way, then that. All the time, the two screamers were pelting him with sound that was worse than three hundred Marantz stereo systems blaring at the same time. 

He finally had to sit down. Then he had to lay down. Then he didn't think conscious thought was worth the effort anymore, and he closed his eyes. The loud pair kept up their barrage until they were certain he wasn't faking. Overloaded with sonic stimulus, Cain Marko had simply gone to sleep. 

Cal Rankin coughed and grasped his throat, which was turning sore. "Can we stop now? I don't see how you do it." 

"Got to be born with the talent, laddie," said the Banshee, a second after cutting off his own sonic blast. "But ya did fine, for a Yank. Now let's lend a hand to the other buckos and Besses." 

Unus and the Vanisher were still at large, but their powers were mostly defensive and their threat was negligible. Cyclops and his brothers-in-arms were converging on the Living Monolith. He was getting up, and his powers were anything but negligible. 

Marvel Girl, Beast, Iceman, and Magnetica were already on the scene. Angel was flying about the Monolith's head, trying successfully (so far) to avoid the giant's grasp. Sunfire, visibly hurting from his wounded arm, caught up and spiraled about the Monolith's face as well, and unleashed a sunbolt right at his enemy's eyes. The Monolith tried to turn his head to avoid it, but was only partially successful. It seared the side of his face and the skin over his right eye. 

He roared in agony. 

"YOU, JAPANESE ONE," he declared. "YOU WILL BE MY FIRST SACRIFICE TO OSIRIS. YOUR DEATH WILL BE QUICK, BUT NOT PAINLESS." 

Iceman tried encumbering him with ice ties about his feet, but they broke like frayed strings. His snow-bomb at the Monolith's face did no more good. "We're in for it, Hank," he confided to the Beast. "Understatement of the millenium." 

"Perhaps not, my Fahrenheit-fallen friend," observed the Beast. "Even Achilles had his famous heel...and, to paraphrase Bob Dylan, perhaps we may render him temporarily like Achilles." 

"You want to get under that heel, be my guest!" 

Cyclops tried blasting the Monolith's ankles, but they had about as much effect as a man stubbing his toes. The Banshee was on the scene now, joining Angel and Sunfire in flying about their foe's head and unleashing sonic blasts. They confused the Monolith, but did little more. 

The leader of the old X-Men nodded briefly to the two women of the team. "Marvel Girl, Magnetica, it's up to you. Go for it." 

Jean Grey, standing beside Lorna Dane, pressed her fingertips to her temples and concentrated. The Monolith's expression showed bewilderment. The others guessed, correctly, that she was attacking him through his mind. Then the brobdinagian foe stood up straight, flexed his muscles, and screamed. 

"GET OUT OF MY MIND!" 

The backlash knocked Jean flat on her side. Lorna and Cyclops were by her in a moment, helping her up. "It's all right, it's all right," said Jean. "I couldn't stay in there long. Didn't expect to." 

"What did you get?" rapped Cyclops. 

"Just what you expected me to," she answered. 

"Link with Lorna, and do what we planned." 

Marvel Girl faced Magnetica and imparted the information she'd gotten from the Monolith's mind. Without a word, Lorna gestured, and a dislodged girder rose from a heap of rubble and settled beside them. "Get on," said Lorna. 

"What?" 

"Like this," Lorna said, and brought the beam up a foot or two, straddling it and sitting on it. Since she was in a skirt, Jean settled for going sidesaddle. Lorna shook her head. "With both legs," she directed. 

"Oh, all right," sighed Jean. She straddled it as well, and the I-beam rose into the air. It flew quickly in a certain direction, carrying its riders with it. The Monolith, seeing it, tried to knock them out of the sky. 

He missed. 

Angrily, he swept back his arms and knocked the flying mutants out of the sky. The impact was like being struck by the arms of a giant animated statue. Iceman formed a slide to catch Sunfire, Banshee, and Angel as they fell, but the great shadow of the Monolith loomed over him. 

In his great hands, the Monolith scooped up Cyclops, Banshee, the Angel, Iceman, and Sunfire. They tried training their powers on him, but it was of no use. The Beast and Mimic tried to attack him from below, but their efforts were even more futile. 

"GODS OF ANCIENT EGYPT, I COMMEND THESE SACRIFICES TO YOU," said the Monolith. His hands began to tighten. 

"Bobby," gasped Cyclops. "Expand your icepower. Try to...loosen...his grip..." 

Iceman said, "No dice...Scotty. Tried it...already. Cracked ice. Nice workin' with ya...again." 

Sunfire, his face white with pain, shouted, "Banzai!" 

Then... 

...the Monolith's grip began to falter. 

Scott Summers wondered if it was but an illusion, a misperception before death. But no, the Monolith really was squeezing them less forcefully. It might still be enough to finish them, unless... 

"X-Men," he said. "The grip's weakening. Use all your power on him, now!" 

The Iceman made a second effort to expand the ice about him. This time, it worked. The right hand of the Monolith quickly sprang open. Sunfire blasted the Monolith's other hand, which he was caught in, just as Cyclops unleashed his visor-blasts on the same hand. The Monolith cried out in pain, and loosened his grip on that hand. 

The Banshee turned his head upward and hit their foe with a sonic scream. A second later, he said, "Saints be praised! D'ya see it, boys? The Mono is shrinking!" 

And so it was. 

The giant swayed back and forth unsteadily, his huge metallic garments growing ever more cumbersome and outsized on him. The five original X-Men had seen such a thing once before, when they first met the Monolith, and they were more than happy to see it again. 

In another second, he was too weak to hold his captives. He dropped the five X-Men. The Beast managed to catch the falling Cyclops. Iceman provided himself with a pole down which to slide to the ground. Banshee, Angel, and Sunfire simply flew to the ground. 

Looking on, Iceman remarked, "I think Monny is about to break the indecent exposure code." 

"Methinks you have a point, chum," replied the Beast. 

The giant was shrinking as quickly as if he had been a Hollywood special effect. He lost bulk, mass, weight, and skin texture. The worst part about it seemed to be the fact that his face showed his awareness of it. "NO," he screamed. "NOT AGAIN. THIS CANnot happen to me a..." 

Then his great metal garments clunked to the ground and Professor Abdol, quite naked amidst them, collapsed. 

Cyclops breathed heavily, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth. Super-heroes liked to joke about the Last Desperate Chance. But until you lived through one of them...and Scott had lived through all too many...you never knew how black the laughter was. 

"Hey, Cyke!" 

He knew the voice. Cyclops turned his head and saw, above and behind him, a girder flying in the air, ridden by three people. 

Lorna. 

Jean. 

And Alex. 

He smiled as the girder brought them to a safe landing. Even before Jean, Scott had to embrace his brother. And he did. 

"Looks like the see-saw went down again," said Angel. "In our favor." 

"You might say that," said Havok. "You might also say...it's good to be alive!" 

"And then some," said Lorna, joining Jean, Scott, and Havok in a group hug. 

As per Cyclops's instructions, Jean Grey had not only attacked the Monolith's mind, she had probed it for information as to where Magneto had taken the coffin bearing Havok. It was in a nearby landfill. With Magneto out for the count, it was only the work of a few moments for them to raise the coffin and crack it open. Havok's exposure to the Earth's cosmic rays cut off power to the Living Monolith and restored the latter to his normal form. 

It had happened before, but they were never more grateful. 

A few minutes later, the mutant band rounded up the unconscious and / or subdued Brotherhood members. Unus was taken down by Jean's mental powers. That left only two unaccounted for. The Vanisher was one of them. 

Magneto was the other. 

"No sign he tunneled away," remarked Havok. "You think he just got up and walked away?" 

Jean shook her head. "No chance. I'm scanning the area, and I'm not picking up his brain waves. He couldn't have gotten far enough away this fast." 

"So," said the Beast. "Vanisher absent. Magneto likewise. Putting the two together does not require the talents of Professor S. F. X. Van Dusen." 

"I didn't know the Vanisher could take people with him when he 'ported," said the Angel. "But it's probably something they worked out beforehand." 

Cyclops nodded. "I can think of one place he'd go. All of us, let's get back in the ships and take it to Westchester. Jean, get on the mind-horn to the Professor, if you can." 

"It's too far out of range, Scott." 

"Then we'll call him on the radio. Let's go, group. And, Alex..." 

Havok waited, Lorna holding his hand. 

"...you guys did really good." 

Alex Summers smiled, and smacked his brother on the shoulder. "You too. Let's move it the hell out." 

Then both of them froze. They saw Sunfire standing over the fallen Professor Abdol. His hand was ablaze. 

"Sunfire, NO!" shouted Alex. 

Toshiro didn't move. "I can slay this dragon before either of you can stop me." 

"Don't bet on that, Sunfire," said Cyclops, clenching his hand in preparation to opening his visor. "Stand down." 

"This man endangers too many lives, including our own, with his continued existence," said Sunfire. "He specifically targets you, Havok, my leader. His execution is a necessity." 

"Like hell," said Alex. "This is America. Like it or not, even a super-villain has rights. Put out that hand and step away." 

"I must refuse." 

"Then your status drops from an X-Man to a Brotherhood member," said Havok. "We will treat you accordingly. I have given you an order, Sunfire. Obey it, or face us all." 

For a long moment, no one moved. Then the flames around Sunfire's hand were snuffed out. The Japanese mutant strode over to Alex and bowed before him. "I present myself for disciplinary action." 

"I'll think of something," said Alex. "In view of your earlier performance today, it'll probably just be cleaning the washrooms. Now..." 

Sunfire pitched forward on his face. 

Alex grabbed him by the shoulders. Cyclops crouched over him. "He's unconscious," said Havok. "The pain must have gotten to him." 

"We'll get him to Parkland Hospital, fast," said Cyclops. "The X-Craft can get him there. By the way, Alex, one hell of a job of leadership." 

"Don't mention it, Scott. Just my job." 

"I have to mention it. The X-Men must never accept a member who is a murderer." 

The Dallas police were approaching, now that the battle was over. Cyclops saw the policeman to whom he had been talking. "We'll have to take them with us," he said, gesturing to the fallen Brotherhood. "And we'll have to go now." 

"You got a court order?" 

"We got one before we came." 

The cop smiled. 

Cyclops said, "Did we make it on time?" 

"Naw. You took half an hour. But you looked like you was havin' so much fun, we cut you some slack." He extended his hand. "Welcome to Dallas." 

"We've got a man down," said Cyclops, shaking the cop's hand. "We need to get him to Parkland." 

"You want an escort?" 

"Just tell them we're coming." 

The united X-Men began to load their fallen foemen aboard the jetcraft. The policeman started back to his squad car to make the radio call. On the way, another officer caught up to him. "Herman?" 

"Yeah?" 

"I gotta say it." 

"Say what?" 

"Just who was that masked man, anyway?" 

"Shut up." 

-M- 

PARKER 

By the time I got to the place in New Rochelle my Spidey Sense had clued me into, I was tingling worse than if my head had gone numb the way your arm does when you sleep on it wrong. Whatever it was that was wrong was in the wrongest way possible. 

I found out when I got inside. I had to break the door lock to get in. The back door, of course. I suppose somebody from another house in the division saw me, but that wasn't what I was concerned with. I could already smell something in abundance that unnerved me. 

Blood. 

It didn't take too long to find where the bodies were lying. Normally, I would have tried to check for a pulse. One look told me that was useless. These guys were dead. Bad dead. Worse than anybody I'd ever seen. 

Don't expect me to describe it. I had a tough enough time hanging onto my cookies the way it was. I tore myself away, looked through the rest of the house. Only me and the two stiffs were there. A middle-aged man and a very big, very muscular hippie. There was more blood elsewhere, and some of it led out to the garage. I looked out there, and the trail ended around an empty car space. Whoever the perpetrator was, he'd gotten away on wheels. 

I didn't know who either of the corpses were. I sure didn't know who'd killed them. I didn't even know who owned the house where I was standing. But I did have a communicator Fury had given me, and I gave him a call pronto. I explained my situation. He told me to get the Sam Hill out of there, that he'd cover for me with the local cops. He said to make myself scarce, and he'd have SHIELD lock the place down and investigate. He'd be in touch with me later. 

Yeah, maybe I should have gone home. But I needed answers. A lot of them. I didn't know where most of the heroes in New York had gone, but I did think there was one guy still left that I knew in Greenwich Village. If anybody could find things out, it might be him. 

Doctor Strange. 

But all of us were still racing against the Fire. 

To be continued...   
  



	20. Part 20:  To Defend the Defenders

FIRE! 

A Tale of the Marvel Universe 

by DarkMark 

Part 20 

The Mandarin gazed at the two faces on the viewscreens before him. He hadn't dealt with either of them before, but if he acknowledged any as his peers, he would have to allow them that honor. Which, of course, he would never admit. 

One of them looked like a machine. The other had skin of green and a brow that towered fully fifteen inches from the crown to the bridge of his nose. 

Supposedly, Dr. Doom wore his mask of iron to hide a hideously scarred face. That was entirely possible, just as his armor was both defense from the outer world and war machine against it. But from the look of his eyes, the spirit of the machine he wore had affected him as well. It was hard to tell, despite what showed through his eyeslits, that one was dealing with a human inside a metal shell, and not a soulless robot. 

The second of his guests-in-communication was no less unsettling. The Leader had once, reportedly, been a normal man, even a stupid one. There had been an accident in a radiation lab, and the normal man had been bathed in gamma rays. Before long, his skin turned permanently green, and his brain grew to hideous proportions. The Mandarin could not comprehend how the bones of the skull, fixed since adulthood, could expand as if by will in order to accomodate the growing brain. But perhaps the Leader's brain controlled the cells of his body to an unheard-of extent. Where the Leader's brain was concerned, anything seemed possible. 

"It is agreed, then?" said the Mandarin. 

Doom was the one to speak first. "Agreements mean nothing. You will remain aloof from the Fantastic Four. They are my prey, and mine alone. The matter is done." 

The Leader said, "I have no interest in the others. My prime target is the Hulk, and those who stand with him. Afterwards, matters may well change." 

"As for myself," said the Mandarin, "once I commanded many of those who stand against the Avengers...more importantly, who stand against Iron Man. I will resume command. After all is accomplished, as you say, Leader, things will change. As you say, Doom, the matter is done." 

With that, he deactivated the scanners, as he was sure the other two did in their lairs. Plans had to be made for the world after the heroes. War would be made amongst the powers who now ruled, the men such as Doom, the Leader, the Red Skull, and the many others who would command the globe. 

Even against the Yellow Claw, and he who commanded the Si-Fan. 

Before long, all might be nostalgic for the time in which they had forces of the old order to contend with, instead of each other. But the great general anticipates the winds of change, and trims his sails to deal with it. 

The Mandarin made ready his rings for activation. The Masters of Evil, despite their power, were a snake without a head. The head was about to arrive. 

-M- 

The Grim Reaper had crashed the party and now he was trying to run it. Some objected, mostly the old Masters who hadn't dealt with him. But nobody could deny that he'd brought some new arrivals into the mix, the Lethal Legion whom he had commanded: Power Man, the Man-Ape, the Living Laser. The Swordsman was unavailable, and nobody seemed to miss him, since it was rumored he'd temporarily become an Avenger and fought beside them in Britain. Also, nobody could deny that they needed direction. The last fight with the Avengers, even with surprise reinforcements, hadn't gone well. 

"The Avengers are mine," said the Grim Reaper. "They were responsible for my brother's death, and his recasting in an android body, as the Vision. Therefore..." 

"Therefore, shut the hell up," muttered Mr. Hyde, who had arrived along with the Cobra and the Grey Gargoyle, all of them foes of Thor and not wanting to miss out on the fun. "I'd take you as a boss like I'd take Casey Stengel in 1962. No offense to the present Mets, of course." 

"You dare?" The Reaper raised his scythe, setting it sparking with deadly energy. It was pointed in the trio's general direction. 

In response, the Cobra pointed his wrist-weapon. "I don't often use the deadliest venom-darts," he said. "Mostly, I just use the ones that can stun. But if you've ever wondered what it would be like to die from a cobra's bite, Reaper..." 

The Grey Gargoyle, a being of living stone, interposed himself between the two of them. "Une momente, mes amis. Before we streak the floor with blood, anyone's coeur, one should remember: despite our numbers, we require all the manpower we can muster. One should not forget, we face not the Avengers alone, but the accursed Asgardian squad, and possibly the Fantastic Quartet and the Nonhumans as well. They have been associating regularly of late, have they not?" 

"We'll handle them, if they turn up," snapped the Reaper. "Now step aside, rock head, and let us settle this ourselves." 

"That you could settle anything is laughable, idiot," remarked a woman in a form-fitting green suit. "In both your encounters with the Avengers, you failed. I almost killed the lot of them, and, had it not been for a missile malfunction, I would have." 

"And if it had not been for an occurrence which placed you in another dimension, dearest, you would have died from those missiles," said an Asian beauty in a red skin-tight outfit. "Or so you told me." 

Madame Hydra turned to the other woman. "Irk me, Madame Macabre, and you had best have more than your shrinking toys to help you this time." 

From another direction, the Enchantress shot a power-bolt at their feet which toppled both of them onto their rears. "Silence, the both of you," she directed. They obeyed. 

"Not bad, witch," said the Wrecker, who was sitting with her and the Executioner at the same table. "But remember: leave Thor to me." 

"In thine dreams," muttered the Executioner. "Only in thine dreams, Wrecker." 

Others had come to join the Masters of Evil combine, and they sat in groups roughly corresponding to the heroes who were their primary foes. The Spymaster, Jack Frost, the Phantom, and Whiplash were keeping company with the Scarecrow, the Unicorn, the Melter, the Titanium Man, the third Crimson Dynamo, and Dr. Spectrum, all of them enemies of Iron Man. The Tumbler, the Planner, Dr. Faustus, and Man-Brute were joined with Nighthawk, representing the anti-Captain America faction. Ant-Man and the Wasp couldn't boast as big a following, but it did include the Whirlwind, Egghead, the Magician, and Madame Macabre, who was getting up off her backside. Thor's enemies were divided into the Asgardians (plus the Wrecker, whose power was Nornish in origin), the regular crew of the Cobra, Hyde, the Grey Gargoyle, and the Radioactive Man, plus Hyperion, who stood by himself. The others included the Whizzer, Klaw, Power Man, Man-Ape, Hammerhead, Pile-Driver, Thunderboot, and Kronus, and the lot of them had to be quartered in an abandoned lair of AIM. Everyone agreed that it was lucky they didn't have to remain hidden much longer than they did. 

"And exactly how are we to decide this question?" sneered Egghead, over a mug of Pabst's. "Appoint one of us as management, have the rest form a union, and then see which breaks the other's neck first?" 

"Egg, shut up," advised the Magician. "This is supposed to be a group effort, remember? I wouldn't have come out of retirement for a bitch session." 

"You shouldn't have come out of retirement at all, Maj," said the Whirlwind, behind his iron mask. "Last I heard, the Wasp used a toy robot to tie you up and delivered you to the cops on a kid's wagon." 

The Magician stood up, incensed, and went for his wand. He didn't find it. The Whirlwind took one hand from behind his back. "Looking for this?" he said. He was holding the Magician's weapon. The man in the top hat yelped and lurched across the table, grabbing for it. The Whirlwind held it away from him for all of a second. 

That was when he noticed he wasn't holding the wand, either. 

The Whizzer, clear across the room, grinned and held the wand in his grasp now. "Come and get it, turtlefoot," he dared. 

By now, the Whirlwind was as mad as the Magician had been. This was more than a joke, it was a slur on his speed. He shoved the table aside, upsetting the Egghead's beer and the Egghead (and the Magician), and made ready to spin into action. But a crystalline, transparent, six-sided block appeared about him, and the former Human Top found himself unable to punch or kick through its walls. Beyond it, Dr. Spectrum was visible, holding up his glowing gem. 

"Whizzer," said Spectrum, "give the Magician back his wand." 

"Aw, Doc," simpered the Whizzer. "I was only..." 

"Give it back. Now." 

Grudgingly, the yellow-and-blue-clad Squadron Sinister member handed the Magician back his trick wand. The Magician resisted an impulse to strike him across the face with it. Spectrum didn't let down the restraining block on the Whirlwind, though. That would've been too chancy. 

The Planner looked across his table at Dr. Faustus, and both of them communicated without a word. They wished they'd never gotten into the thing in the first place. But it was too late for those sentiments by now. 

The Grim Reaper, in his black costume with the long cape and the metal scythe fixed to his hand, was still ranting. "You see? This is the reason why we need leadership. The internal battling, the conflicts of ego. First, there was Zemo, the organizer of the Masters, and he died fighting Captain America." 

"Really," said the Melter. 

"I would simply never have guessed," responded the Radioactive Man. 

"Then the Crimson Cowl reformed the band," the Reaper continued, "but he was inadequate. First, he was a robot..." 

"You discriminatin' against robots, now, pally?" joked Hammerhead, whose metal headpiece, designed by the Mad Thinker, gave him his name. "A fine thing to say about Automated Americans." 

"...then, he let in the Black Knight, who was a traitor to the cause," finished the Reaper. 

"So let's not mention the Swordsman, shall we?", the Porcupine injected with sly venom. 

Power Man leaned over. "Nobody cuts my pal Sword down, Porky. Even if he did cross the line once or twice. Shut your face." 

"I am the one with leadership abilities here," said the Reaper. "I have already led the Lethal Legion into battle, and almost destroyed the Avengers." 

"All of once," Batroc observed, laconically. "And should you be speaking of leadership, ever hear of Batroc's Brigade?" 

Whiplash toyed with his weapon. "Or should I respect a 'leader' before I see how he stands up to my whip?" 

The Grim Reaper brandished his scythe once again. "Perhaps a demonstration is in order, then. En garde, Whiplash." 

Before anything could be settled in that sort of manner, something else intervened. It was the appearance from sub-space of a man familiar to all too many of those present. Said appearance looked like a being unfolding itself from nothingness, as if by magic, but it was really due to the technology of a long-gone alien race, one of whose spaceships had crashed in ancient China. 

Another example of that technology was the ten rings the new arrival wore on his fingers. He pointed a certain one of them on his right hand at the Grim Reaper, who wore a surprised expression. A beam shot forth from the ring. It enveloped the Reaper in its wake and created an immense amount of steam and a horrible smell. 

When it had passed, the Reaper was gone. 

The Mandarin let the silence hang for a moment. Then he said, in a voice that carried to the entire room, "You have been seeking a leader. He has come." 

When nobody contradicted him, he added, "Let us now get to work." 

-M- 

PARKER 

So there I was, skulking my way out of a murder scene, trying like blazes not to get noticed. Despite anything you may have heard to the contrary, that ain't easy when you're wearing a red-and-blue Spidey uniform. But I did my best, and had my spider-sense turned up on 10.5, so it managed to work. 

One of the best ways to travel if you're a superhero and can't fly is by bus. That is, if you can use the Spider-Man method. I swung over to the local Greyhound depot, waited till I saw a bus going in the right direction, and hopped on top of it. I could manage that with only a small amount of noise...a muffled thump that I hoped would be chalked up to one biiiiig bird overhead...and I just kept spread-eagled, or spread-spidered, over the roof on my way back to NYC. 

It took a few changes of vehicle before I got within swinging distance of the Apple, but once I was in them old concrete canyons, I was home and webslingin' and I didn't care if J. Jonah Jameson or J. Edgar Hoover even knew about it. But don't think I didn't have the scene from the Gilbert residence in the back of my mind, all the way. I shouldn't use that phrase...it reminds me of what Mr. Gilbert ended up with in the back of his head. 

Well. I've got a way of getting into empty offices and using phones when nobody's around, and I made it a point to call home. I let the phone ring a dozen and a half times. No answer. The Spidey-sense was giving me a mild tingle. I thought about going home right then. But it hadn't been the first time Gwen had been out at night, usually just down to the local Hardee's (don't tell her I told you that), and I needed to get hold of Dr. Strange. He has a number, too, but it's unlisted and I didn't know it. So the only way there was by web express. 

Somebody or other must have been watching for me. Maybe it was one of those geeks like Mentallo, who could read minds, or could cast psychic nets or something. Psychic nets...sounds like something you dial up for in Maine on late-night TV. Well, I never did find out what caused what happened. Maybe they were just keeping their eyes peeled really well that night. 

Whatever the case, I wasn't too far from the Village, under 10 miles, I'd say, when all of a sudden my spider-sense gave me the third alarm. I looked up and I got dive-bombed by a couple of feet attached to a body attached to a pair of wings that were so silent, so new and improved, that even I couldn't hear 'em when they flapped. And the dive-bombing hurt, let me tell you. 

It was the Vulture. The old one, the one who created the wings and the magnetic gimmick that let him fly. 

He said something, but I wasn't concentrating on it. I had an aching head, and I was busy shooting out webs in two opposite directions and grabbing onto the ends. They stuck to two adjacent buildings, and I stopped my fall that way. The Vulture was still coming at me. So I bounced a little, used the webs' elastic properties, and flung myself up and over him. 

I ended up on his back. It was an old trick, but it still worked. 

Vulch reached up, cussed, and tried to grab me. I twisted his arm behind his back, put my other arm around his neck, and told him he'd better be able to fly with one arm, or we were gonna be side-by-side grease spots. He picked out a building with a water tower to land on, and I should have twigged to it right then. As a matter of fact, my Spidey-sense was blasting, but I didn't know what about. 

Out from behind that water tower came a blunt object made out of hardened sand. I was fast enough to drag up Vulch and put him in front of me so that he took it in the face. I think it rearranged his nose somewhat, and he was out for the count. The Sandman started coming around the back of the tower, and the top of it lifted off. It was being lifted by a couple of jointed metal arms. 

There was also some familiar smoke starting to issue from the inside of the tower. 

Taking the better part of discretion, I said, "Bye, guys!", and hightailed it. I chanced a look behind me. A whole bunch of baddies were coming in my direction. Doc Ock, Sandman, Kraven, the Shocker, the Beetle, Mysterio, you name it. Everybody but Bert Parks. 

I put the old web-slinger in high gear and hoped that the Doc would have some industrial-strength spells lying around, and that I'd get there in time for him to use them. 

-M- 

The Defenders were held tight in bands of silvery energy created by the Absorbing Man, who was wearing a silver sheath similar to the Surfer's, and reinforced by the magic of Baron Mordo. Considering they were restraining the Hulk, the Sub-Mariner, Dr. Strange, and the Silver Surfer himself, that was no small job. The Surfer's board hung in stasis, paralyzed by the Crimson Bands of Cyttorak. Dr. Strange's amulet was covered by the silver band across his chest, and he was unable to use it to melt through his bonds. 

Clea and Wong, bound by more conventional ropes, looked on more-or-less helplessly. Mordo, the Absorbing Man, Tiger Shark, and the Abomination had won by the strength of surprise more than anything else. But they had won. 

Now, the Ministers of Menace were contemplating the downed Defenders. 

Sub-Mariner surged against his bonds, but they held fast. "The surface men will know," he muttered. "You have revealed our existence today. Their police will be alerted." 

"Ooh, I am so petrified," grinned the Absorbing Man, hefting his silver-hued ball and chain. "They might even try to take us to jail or something. With those big, big guns of theirs." 

"Silence, Creel," snapped Mordo. "We shall be long gone before the arrival of the police. So will Strange and his fools, thankfully." 

"Great!" The Abomination cracked his green knuckles. "I get to rip the Hulk's head off!" 

The Hulk growled and gave his foe a look that made him hesitate, bound though the Green Goliath might be. 

The Silver Surfer said, "You may hold the Power Cosmic, but you cannot master it. Its power is beyond your body. It will burn you like a flame within paper, unless you relinquish it soon." 

"Won't take that long, Surfey," said Tiger Shark, leaning against a doorjamb. "Won't take that long at all." 

Clea tried to stand up, failed, and said, "Many mightier than you have tried, Mordo, and all of them have failed. Including Dormammu. Including Umar. Including—yourself." 

Mordo spared her a glance. "Oh, spare me, woman. After the initial festivities, I'll probably have the Abomination crush both your skulls. We need nothing so artistic with you two." 

"You don't need anything artistic with these punks, either," said the Abomination, flexing his hands. "Let me do 'em, Baron. Nobody comes back from a busted head." 

"As I shall demonstrate with you, given time," said the Sub-Mariner, defiantly. 

"Him, I'm not gonna miss at all," said Tiger Shark. 

The Absorbing Man nodded towards Dr. Strange, who was slumping in his bands. "Why ain't he saying anything?" 

Mordo stepped to his age-old foe, examining him closely. "Simple. Strange has resorted to his ectoplasmic form. Doesn't worry me in the least." 

"Doesn't?" 

"Not a bit. His spirit cannot survive over 24 hours without a body. Within ten minutes, I'm going to deprive him, and the others, of that." 

"Now we're talkin'," said the Abomination. 

"No," said Mordo. "Now, I will talk. And the rest of you will keep silent. I shall create a dimensional portal, extend it around them up to their waists...and then...close it." 

"Close it?" Tiger Shark rubbed his chin. "Sounds kinda...juicy." 

"Not even the Hulk or the Surfer can defy natural laws," proclaimed Mordo. "It will cut them in twain as surely as the blade of a guillotine." He turned to Wong and Clea. "And just think. The two of you get to watch." 

Then Mordo stretched forth his hands, began to chant, and the air took on a different ambience. 

Even the other villains were smart enough to be scared. 

-M- 

PARKER 

You think it's easy swinging ten miles or so through the skies with about a dozen of your worst enemies in pursuit? Like fun it is, kids. I was dodging electric bolts, Mysterio's gimmicks, Shocker's blasts, Doc Ock's arms, and Sandman's sand all up and down the place. In and out of the concrete canyons, on the street, among the cabs, through an office building, and all over the place. Onward. Ever onward. 

If the guy with the red cape wasn't in, I was in for a helluva fight. 

It was about two miles out, I guess, when I heard something in my mind. I heard it just before I saw a ghost floating beside me, keeping pace with me. 

The ghost was Dr. Strange. More specifically, it was his ectoplasmic form. You see, Strange had this trick of projecting his spirit out of his body. It still had a degree of magic power, and could make itself visible to people when he chose to. He chose to make it visible to me. 

I darn near dropped the end of the web I was holding onto. 

Spider-Man,> he said in my mind. I need your aid.> 

"Thanks," I think I said. "But there's this minor matter of about a dozen bad guys chasing me, and I was hoping you could help with that." 

Would a delaying tactic work?> he asked. 

I said I hoped it'd be a little more permanent than that. But Strange said that wasn't his style, and he flew past me to face the Sinister Sixteen, or whatever they were calling themselves. He probably muttered some mystic incantation, but I didn't hear it in my ears or my brain. I heard one of Electro's bolts go cracklin' by my ear. I kept swinging. 

After a few seconds, I didn't hear anything being thrown at me, which was unusual right then. 

The ghost of Doc Strange caught up to me. I asked him what he did. He just said that they'd be a bit too stupefied to chase me for a few minutes. "So what happens after that?" I said. 

Well,> he said, you'll either have helped save me and my allies, and we'll help you with your enemies. Or we're all be dead, and you'll be on your own.> 

"Lead on, MacDuff," I said. "I'm kinda hazy on your address. By the way, who's the nasties you want me to help with?" 

The Abomination, the Absorbing Man, and a couple you wouldn't know,> he said. 

I don't know if I said anything after that. I don't know that it would've made a whole lot of difference if I did. 

I just kept swinging. 

-M- 

The three other Ministers of Menace were backed against a wall as Mordo formed a hole between dimensions. It was roughly oval, hard to perceive all at once, and hurt the eyes to look upon. An odor of ozone overpowered the incense in Strange's brownstone. The oval was formed about the midsections of the trapped Defenders. 

Wong and Clea had tried to roll themselves forward, but the Absorbing Man had used some Power Cosmic to make them stick to the wall behind them. All they could do was watch, like the three of Mordo's minions. The girl from Dormammu's dimension was shedding tears of agony. She was going to watch her man Strange murdered before her eyes. And there was nothing she could do about it. 

The oval ring was almost totally formed. Finally, Mordo looked up at his four trapped foes and smiled. "It's finished," he said. 

"Not while one of us, or one of our allies, still lives," seethed Namor. 

"In that case, the problem's going to be in your allies' hands within a minute," said Mordo, raising his hands again. "A pity Strange isn't conscious to see this, but one can't have everything. Well, not for awhile, at least. Farewell, all four of you." 

"Do it, Baron, do it!" urged the Abomination. 

Mordo was about to oblige. 

That is, before a web shot out and fastened itself around his face. 

The black magician grabbed the strange caul with both hands, which became irresistibly stuck to the webbing, and fumbled with it, staggering and making muffled cries. The other three villains were stilled by surprise. 

An instant later, a red-and-blue thunderbolt hurtled down the stairway to the second floor and tackled Baron Mordo about the middle from behind, slamming him into the oval ring and causing it to explode in a shower of mystic energy. 

"One web facial," said the newcomer, "courtesy of your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man." 

Mordo sprawled motionless on the rug. Wong and Clea's expressions became suffused with hope. Tiger Shark sprang forward, grabbing for Spider-Man's ankle, and missed. Strange had told Spider-Man what to do, and approximately how long he would have to do it. Even with spider-speed, it was a close shave. 

But he did manage to grab Strange's shirt and yank it up from below the silver band that covered it, so that the Amulet of Agomotto was exposed once again. The Hulk, the Sub-Mariner, and the Surfer looked on in amazement. 

Tiger Shark got Spider-Man in a death grip from behind and began wrenching his head in a certain way. "Wise guy," was all he deigned to say. 

Dr. Strange opened his eyes. 

A beam of yellow light shot out from his amulet, hitting Tiger Shark in the eyes and immobilizing him. The Hulk roared, straining against his bonds. The Absorbing Man raised one hand and sent a bolt of destructive energy coruscating towards the heroes. 

The Amulet took in the bolt, redirected it, channeled it into the Surfer's body. The Power Cosmic began to swiftly drain from the Absorbing Man's body. His flesh swiftly changed back to its normal color. He really should have had more time to contemplate what had become of him. But a flying silver board smashed into him from behind, knocking him colder than ice. 

With a burst of sparking power that truly awed Spider-Man, the Silver Surfer blasted the silvery bonds to nothingness. He stood there, one hand raised in triumph and resolution. 

The Abomination decided that a leap through the ceiling and through Strange's funky sunlight window might be in his best interests, but he never got that far. The Hulk grabbed him, threw him down on the floor, and pounded him repeatedly until both fell through the floor into the basement. Sounds of repeated pounding, and dust, rose from the hole. 

Spider-Man ventured to say something. "How long will we have to listen to that?" 

"Probably not much longer," said Namor. 

A few seconds later, the Hulk heaved himself over the edge of the hole, looking a bit more satisfied. "Web-Man," he observed. "Hulk has seen Web-Man before." 

Spidey spread his hands. "Hey, not me. It was just my stunt-double, Hulky. Honest." 

Dr. Strange lay his hand on the Hulk's shoulder. "Spider-Man is our friend, Hulk. He came to free us, and to let you fight the Abomination?" 

"He got the Hulk a fight?" 

Strange nodded. 

Hulk considered it. "All right. Web-Man is friend. For now." 

"That's good to know, under the circumstances," said Strange. "Because, unless I miss my guess..." 

The front door, which had been rehung by the Absorbing Man, fell inward again under the pressure of three metal arms. Dr. Octopus stood framed there, and surged forward, backed up by the Sandman, the Shocker, and several other miscreants. All he saw at first was his familiar, arachnid adversary. 

"At last, Spider-Man," breathed Octopus. "You may have delayed us, but you'll never deter us. Nothing can stop the vengeance of..." 

"Uh, Doc..." said the Sandman. 

Spider-Man wasn't moving. Octopus rushed forward. About five feet away from his enemy, Doc Ock finally perceived a huge form looming over Spider-Man's shoulder. 

The form was green and not looking too pleased. 

"Uh, yes," stammered Octopus, halting in his tracks and beginning to back up. "As I was about to say...we can wait on our vengeance...just a bit, you understand...just, uh, a day or two, perhaps..." 

Then he turned and bolted for the door, right behind Electro, Mysterio, Sandman, and all the rest. 

Strange, Spider-Man and the Hulk looked out the doorspace until the motley crew of villains were out of sight. It didn't take long. 

"Well, Spider-Man," said Strange, turning to his ally, "tell me: what's on your mind?" 

-M- 

Things were happening in Washington, D. C. 

A sizeable contingent of protesters converged on the Pentagon, and they weren't chanting "Out, Demon, Out!" this time. They were on the march. National Guardsmen came out to block them. The protestors pulled out high-tech weaponry and fired. Not everyone in the throng knew what kind of heat the shooters were packing, and they tried to flee, but there were too many in the close-packed mob to do that easily. 

Guardsmen went down, dead. Some who remained stood at attention. Others panicked. It wasn't clear who returned fire first. 

Really, it didn't matter. 

There were over a score dead, some on both sides, when the smoke began to clear. At least fifty others had been wounded. The protesters who remained tried to fan out to what passed for the tall timber. Some Guardsmen fired on them. Other Guardsmen clubbed down the ones who fired, or ordered them to stop and were obeyed. 

It made Kent State look like a cakewalk. 

-M- 

In the Oval Office, several men watched the scene on a special video feed. The man in the seat scratched his stubbled chin and whispered, "My God," several times. 

"Such a tragedy," said the man with the German accent, sincerely. "Such...insanity." 

"I knew it'd come to this," said the vice-president. "I always knew..." 

"Spiro, shut up," snapped the president. "Do you think I wanted this? Do you ever think I wanted this? This is...this is..." 

The Secretary of State waited, then said, "Perhaps you should make an address, Mr. President." 

"Do you think I could keep from making one, Henry? I'll go on the air in an hour, if we can make it. I...oh, [expletive deleted]. It's falling apart. It's all falling apart." 

The vice-president said, simply, "All of it, sir?" 

The president looked up and nodded. "America." 

-M- 

The Black Widow hung up the phone. "All right. Fury says he'll check into it." 

"Wouldn't expect him to do anything less," said Daredevil. "What about helping us?" 

"He says he's got his hands full, but as soon as possible, he'll see about lending a hand." 

Ivan Petrov leaned against the wall, unpleased. "So this entire city falls under the command of the Purple Man, just because Nick Fury has problems with a bunch of dissidents?" 

DD pulled the mask off his face, shoving it back so that it hung off the back of his costume. "In case you haven't been watching more of the news than that, Ivan, there's been civil unrest in numerous places, even bloodshed. Race riots, revolutionaries, the whole nine yards. Plus super-villain groups, like the one we've been engaging, are popping up all over the country. SHIELD is mostly leaving the super-baddies to super-heroes. Like us." 

Ivan sneered. "Like you and Natasha. I don't need a costume to do my work." 

"Also, we are super-heroes in name only, Matt," prompted the Widow. 

Daredevil smiled wryly. "My radar sense doesn't count, then?" 

"It counts for a lot. But up against opponents like these, we need allies like Thor, Iron Man, the Thing...even Spider-Man would be of help. Both of us only have normal power levels." 

"Normal power levels, and brains, have been enough to get us by before, Natasha. They'll suffice again. All we have to do is figure out the right way to take out the Purple Man, and the rest we can handle." 

Slowly, Natasha Romanoff said, "Perhaps the proper way is to take him out altogether." 

"Don't tell me you said what I think you just said." Matt faced her with unseeing eyes, but she knew he wasn't missing anything. 

"You would know if I spoke a lie," Natasha answered. Even Ivan kept his peace. 

"Yes," said Matt, quietly. "I would. But heroes don't kill." 

"Oh? Then what would you call the many who died at Stalingrad, or Normandy? Arch-villains?" She shook her red mane of hair. "Matt, there are sometimes when killing is justified." 

"And this is not one of those times, Natasha," Matt replied. He moved closer to her. "We may be vigilantes. But we're not lawbreakers. Even criminals, even the Purple Man, has rights. We can apprehend him, but not kill him." 

"Are you sure?" She put her hands on her hips. "Would he show us the same consideration? Would he hesitate to place the innocents he's enslaved out of harm's way?" 

"Of course not. That's why he's a villain, and we're heroes." 

The Widow nodded. "True, up to a point. But if we fail, the police will try every means to bring him down. Including the use of deadly force...sharpshooters, for example." 

"They will." 

"So why, then?" 

"Because of morality. Because of civilization. And not the least, because of the law." A heartbeat or two, then: "Not long ago, you were accused of murder, Natasha. Are you willing to have them give it another go? This time, with justification?" 

"You know better," said the Widow. 

"Then why did you bring all that up?" 

"Because I had to make certain just where we were prepared to draw the line." 

He smiled and grasped her shoulders. "That's good, Natasha. That's very good. Now, we can get down to the plan." 

"You have a plan?" 

"Have you ever known me not to?" 

Ivan Petrov watched the both of them, and maintained his silence. He would never take part in such a debate. Though he was a moral man, his morality was of necessity much starker than Matt Murdock's, perhaps even starker than Natasha's. He had been at Stalingrad during the Great Patriotic War. He had seen the bodies pile up on both sides, and had contributed some to the opposing side, personally. 

And if he had to do it again, in the war they had at hand, there was a reason he still carried a gun. 

-M- 

Spider-Man had just finished telling Dr. Strange and his Defenders, whose existence he had never suspected until today, about his meeting with Nick Fury, his session in the ESP chamber, and the murder scene he had recently vacated, as well as his pursuit by Doctor Octopus and his comrades. While speaking, Spidey had made sure that there was a doorway behind him, and that the Hulk wasn't between him and it. 

Strange was sitting in an ornately carved chair, Clea behind him and Wong serving tea. He stroked his chin and finally answered, "Intriguing. Most intriguing." 

"Doc, along with your other titles, you can call yourself the Emir of Understatement," Spider-Man said. "But I figured if anybody could figure things out, you could. I just didn't think you'd be taking in roomies." 

Clea smiled. Namor's mouth twitched a bit. The Surfer remained impassionate. The Hulk only sat and bided time, which was fine with everybody else. 

"We are only allies, Spider-Man," explained Dr. Strange. "The Defenders are a much looser organization than the Avengers. Considering the legal status of three of us, we also prefer secrecy. But, when we have to, we operate together most efficiently." 

"Except, perhaps, for tonight," noted the Sub-Mariner. 

The Surfer, holding his board in one hand, mused, "As little as I know of humanity, the pattern here is still striking. The internal strife, the massing of super-villains in quasi-military units, and the two murders that Spider-Man described...all seem to have a common center. All parts of the same web." 

"Thanks for the plug, Surfer, I think," said Spider-Man. "Glad we're back on better terms, too." 

"My apologies," said the Surfer. "It was a misunderstanding. But then again, there have been so many of those." The last time the Surfer and Spider-Man met, they'd gotten into a fight. But that was practically standard operating procedure for super-heroes, when they first encountered each other. 

"A conspiracy," declared Namor. "A conspiracy which ranges not only over this land, but below the sea as well. Super-villain against super-hero, with naught but mayhem as a motive, except for Byrrah's attempt on my homeland." 

"That had to be part of it, too," said Spider-Man. "These things are just happening too close together." 

Dr. Strange said, "Such as the two killings at the house you visited. Such as the fact that your enemies easily found you in transit from there to here. But what they could not know is that I have been partnered with the Hulk, Namor, and the Surfer here. Indeed, the hand of a master is behind all this." 

Namor said, "Most likely, the armored hand of Doctor Doom. Only he could organize such an effort." 

Strange shook his head. "No, my friend. Possible, but doubtful. Doom rarely works with allies, and never more than a few, at best, according to what Reed Richards has told me. Most likely, the key to the mystery lies with the two victims Spider-Man found in that house." 

"Who were they?" asked Clea. 

"Good question," acknowledged the sorcerer. "Perhaps we should ask our guests." 

At that, the Hulk raised his head. "Does Magician want Hulk to make Green One talk?" 

Strange got up and walked towards the Hulk, smiling. "No, Hulk. The Abomination might not know what we want. I suspect the answers lie with Baron Mordo, my own enemy." 

"Good!" Hulk ground one hand into his other palm. "Then Hulk will make him talk!" 

"Uh, that will not be necessary, Hulk," said Strange, placatingly. Spider-Man let out a sigh of relief. 

The Hulk looked disgusted. "Magician never lets Hulk have fun. Hulk ought to get up and go home." 

Namor responded, "Hulk, if we are correct, there should be much more fighting for all of us before very long. Will that suffice?" 

"More fighting?" 

"Undoubtedly." 

"Good!" The Hulk grinned. "Then Hulk will stay." 

Clea and the Surfer exchanged glances. Wong remained poker-faced. 

"Uh, Doc," said Spider-Man. "Questioning this Mordo guy. Isn't that likely to be, well, a little dangerous?" 

"Always," said Dr. Strange. "But it is the only way. How long will your webbing last?" 

"About an hour. Then it melts." 

"Should be only a matter of minutes, then," said Strange. They waited. 

PARKER 

While I waited, I thought about calling Gwen. She hadn't been pleased with me webbing shut the window. She hadn't been pleased with me galvanting off in my Spidey suit. She let me know all about it. And maybe that was the reason why I didn't call her. That and the fact that I was in Dr. Strange's house, with three guys who weren't exactly known to the Western world for being on the right side of the law, and four others that were known for always being on the wrong side of it. Even for me, it was weirdness to the nth degree. 

I also didn't want to ask Strange where his phone was. So I didn't call home. 

Big, bad mistake. Really bad mistake. 

To the nth of the nth degree. 

-M- 

Nick Fury lit another cheroot in the lighter built into his command desk. Dum Dum Dugan and Gabe Jones were sitting with him, not saying anything. But they, too, had overhead his conversation with the Black Widow. Fury leaned back, took a couple of puffs, and pressed another button on his desk. The microphone on which he had taken the Widow's call was routed to another receiver. When he heard the connection opening, Fury didn't wait for the man on the other end. 

"Kid. This is Nick Fury. What've you got?" 

"Uh. Nick. I'm with some friends." 

"In Greenwich Village? That's where your unit shows you're at." 

"Well, yes." 

"Doc Strange?" 

"How'd you know about him?" 

"We know a lot, kid. What's going on?" 

"Intercepted an ambush. I helped them get out of it." 

"Them?" 

"Doc and his friends." 

"Oh. Anything else?" 

"The Doctor's about to grill one of his old enemies. Baron Something-or-other. Know him?" 

"Not sure. Not Strucker or Klaue?" 

"Uh, just a second. Doc, is this guy named Strucker or Klaue? No, he says he's not, and he wants to know who I'm talking to. Can I say?" 

"No." 

"All right." 

"Can you get me up to the grill session so's I know what this guy is saying?" 

"Just a minute. Doc. The guy I'm talking to would like to...oh. Well, I'm not sure. Hang on. Uh, sir?" 

"Yeah, kid?" 

"The doctor says he won't let you hear it unless he knows who's on the other end of the line." 

"All right, dammit, put me through. Strange, is that you?" 

"With whom am I speaking?" 

"Colonel Nick Fury, Director of SHIELD. I want to know what the Sam Hill is going on down there." 

"I am about to try to obtain information from an old acquaintance. Now, if you will excuse me..." 

"Listen, Strange. I've got a man in Sick Bay who damn near died when somebody tried to cut off his arm with an AIM blaster. Spider-Man's been working with me for the last few hours. I gotta hunch that your war and mine are connected. Savvy?" 

"I'll acknowledge the possibility." 

"You'll do a helluva lot more than that. I want to hear you question that man. Is he a German?" 

"No. Transylvanian." 

"Is he with HYDRA?" 

"I would tend to doubt it." 

"Well, all right, Strange. I want to know who's behind it...who gave out the weapon that almost killed my man. If you trade with me, I'll trade with you." 

"What do you have to trade, Colonel Fury?" 

"Ask him about Fire." 

"About fire?" 

"Go ahead and ask him. Strange? You there?" 

"Uh, Colonel? This is Spider-Man again." 

"What happened to Strange, kid?" 

"He handed me the comm unit and he's in front of the Baron, now. The Baron doesn't have my web all over his face anymore...oh, wow." 

"What is it?" 

"Doc is using his amulet. You ever seen it, Colonel? He's got a ray shooting out from it and...looks like the Baron's hypnotized, or something. Strange is talking to him." 

"Kid. Shut up and get me in close so I can hear!" 

"...Mordo. Your will is my will." 

"My will is..." 

"Say it." 

"...yours." 

"Very good. Now, in the name of the Seraphim, I command you to reveal what you know of those behind your actions." 

"A man. With money." 

"What man? What money?" 

"Didn't get his name. He didn't leave it. Beard. Almost exiled him to the Dark Dimension. He showed me a million dollars. In a briefcase." 

"Why did he do that?" 

"He said he wanted me to fight you. Told him I'd do that for free." 

"And?" 

"He said he wanted me to lead a team of villains, to be one of the point leaders...what he said." 

"Did he know about the Defenders?" 

"Don't think so. I did. That is why...the Ministers of Menace." 

"What of the Fire?" 

"Code word." 

"What code word?" 

"Code word. Fire. If I accepted the deal...I was to dial a number, and give him the code-word. Fire. I'd receive another million, then, for operations. Said...other villains were going to be in on it. If I didn't throw in...someone else might get you." 

"Ah. Did he reveal any more of his plan?" 

"No." 

"And you took him at his word?" 

"To kill you, and your Defenders, and make two million dollars...I did not worry about his word." 

"I see. Is that the only communication you had with him?" 

"Yes." 

"Did you know anything of the other villain groups?" 

"No." 

"Return to your coma." 

"...Kid. Let me talk to Strange." 

"Okay. Here you go, Doc." 

"Yes, Colonel? I trust you heard everything." 

"Yeah. What in hell is this 'Defenders'?" 

"Never mind that. What more can you tell us about this Fire?" 

"Here's what I have. The Black Widow, Daredevil's partner, called me up a few minutes ago and told me what she'd gotten from a friend of hers. A buncha super-ops behind the Iron Curtain got approached by the same kinda recruiter as this Baron guy you were questioning. Same code word...'Fire.'" 

"I see." 

"So do I. With just one eye." 

"What do you wish now, Colonel?" 

"There's more. The house that the kid found the two corpses in belonged to Gary Gilbert. You know, the vice-prez of Gilbert Industries." 

"I have heard of him. And of his father." 

"Well, his dad was one of the stiffs." 

"Simon Gilbert? The president of the company?" 

"Yeah." 

"What of the other?" 

"We ran a make on him. Name's David Graine. Known radical, past SDS member, into some pretty shady territory on the Far Left. Deader than hell. But the bullet that killed Gilbert came from his gun. The one that killed Graine came from another piece. We don't know whose." 

"Perhaps..." 

"No perhapsing yet. But we haven't found Gary Gilbert yet. Don't know which end of this he's in, whether he's dead or alive, or much of anything else. I could use a hand, Strange. Even one like yours." 

"What do you mean, 'even one like yours', Colonel?" 

"Don't put much stock in your trade. Hocus-pocus and all that. But I'm lookin' for help everywhere these days. Ask the kid." 

"Well, Colonel, indeed we might agree to..." 

"Strange! Beware. A noise outside the door..." 

"What?" 

"Strange? Hey, Strange? Who was that, anyway? Who..." 

(SFX: Huge explosion.) 

"Strange? Strange? Kid? Anybody? If anybody's there...hello? Do you copy? Is anybody there? Hello?" 

Nick Fury shut off the communicator. He looked at Dum Dum and Gabe, grimly. 

"Orders, Colonel?" said Gabe, gently. 

"Get the Heli-Carrier over Greenwich Village," said Fury. "And see if there's any pieces big enough to recognize." 

To be continued...   



	21. Part 21:  The San Francisco Superhero Sh...

FIRE! 

By DarkMark 

Part 21 

Lt. Ironguts O'Hara scowled at Daredevil and the Black Widow in his office. 

"I let you guys have your turn, and you blew it," he said. "Completely. My niece Shanna could have done a better job than you." 

The Widow was about to speak up angrily, but a gesture from her partner made her hold her peace. DD had long known about keeping on the good side of the police. 

"That's entirely true so far, Lieutenant," admitted Daredevil. "But, given that point, we want one more try at cracking this case." 

"No," said O'Hara. 

Natasha was on her feet. "See here, Lieutenant. Daredevil and I have fought many battles, and won each one of them. But hardly any of them was won with one fight. We have had initial skirmishes, been repelled, assessed our failures, and went back in armed with new knowledge. That is how we win." 

The paunchy cop ground out his cigar in his amber crystal ashtray. "Irrelevant. You see that sign on the wall? It says 'To Preserve and Protect.' That's for cops to do, not just any mook that puts on an idiot suit." 

"Also granted," said Daredevil. "Which is why I say, if we lose this one—" 

"No," said O'Hara. 

"–if we lose it, we'll step out of the picture. You and your officers can have the field to yourselves. But just think of this: Killgrave has complete control over several hundred innocent bystanders, and he'll be on the march before long. How do you propose to keep your men out of his sway, when he can turn them with a single word?" 

"The same way you describe," said O'Hara. "Engage. If repulsed, fall back. Find a new method of attack. I was in Korea, Hornhead. I know what I'm doing." 

"And so do we," said Natasha. "What we are talking about is nothing less than the lives of your officers and those who you are sworn, quote, 'to preserve and protect'. If you send in your men, there will be death. Count on it. Some of your policemen will die, some civilians will die, because Killgrave will send them against you, and do you think, Lieutenant, that he will order them not to kill?" 

O'Hara was silent. 

"Lieutenant," said Daredevil earnestly, "we have a plan. Let us actuate it." 

As O'Hara opened his mouth to answer, the intercom on his desk buzzed. "Lootenant, uh...people here to see you." 

"Make 'em wait," barked the lieutenant. 

"Uh...I don't think that's an option, sir..." 

A second later, the door seemed to be pulled inward from the middle with a huge crunching sound. That was quite accurate, as the door was devoured in three big munches by an incredibly huge brown dog that stood outside. At least, for a moment. 

There was a delegation of strange-looking persons behind the colossal mutt. One was black-clad and silent, another had swirling red hair in torrents, one had green, scaly skin, and the other two, one large, one short, were equally impressive. Neither DD nor the Widow had met them before, but they quickly guessed who the interlopers were. 

"The Inhumans," exclaimed Natasha. 

"Awww, no," said O'Hara, in disgust and despair. "No, no, not more of 'em, not with a...a dog...!" 

"Greetings to you, Lieutenant, Daredevil, and Widow," said Medusa, stepping alongside the dog's side to be the first in the room. "May I apologize for Lockjaw's manners. We will replace your door. But we need to be of service in this matter." 

Triton spoke up. "In New York, we saw coverage of the event befalling you. Since you were only two, and we have spent time in this city recently, we decided to offer help." 

DD smiled. "I've heard of your powers. This may even the odds quite a bit." 

Black Bolt stepped towards Daredevil and extended his hand. For a moment, Daredevil felt a thrill of empathy. He had heard the Inhumans' monarch was mute. Could Black Bolt know, or suspect, that the man he faced was blind? 

Without speaking, Daredevil took Black Bolt's hand. The king of the Inhumans extended his other hand to the Widow, and she took it respectfully. 

"Good to have you along," said Daredevil. "Now, here's my plan." 

-M- 

The brownstone with the strange circular window with cross-hatchings on top had been blasted to dust and rubble. It was not the only building to suffer such treatment in Greenwich Village. 

Nobody knew which rioter had thrown the bomb or placed it on the structure's doorstep. It didn't seem to matter. The havoc had spread from several blocks away like a rolling tidal wave...somewhat of a shopworn image, but it still served...and engulfed the part of the Village that Stephen Strange had called home. 

Some of the mob had held back for a few moments, seeing the likes of Dr. Octopus, the Vulture, and the Sandman fleeing from the brownstone's front door. But those behind them pushed forward, and soon the super-villains some had seen were forgotten. What mattered was their work of destruction, their art of ruin. 

Was it politics, nihilism, or just new-fashioned hell-raising? Not too many in the throng could have told you, and fewer still might have cared. It was a Happening. 

And it was happening all over the place. 

Some of them smashed in windows with bricks. Others rode motorcycles through storefronts. Others threw bags of scat or urine in whichever direction they cared. There was screaming, there was shouting, there was burning, there was bombing. But there weren't too many signs being waved. The crowd had other things to do with their arms. 

New York's Finest, those which were already on the scene, were trying and failing to impose order on the mob. They knew, in their hearts, that they would never sneer at the Chicago cops from '68 again. They also hoped that the National Guard would be quick enough on the scene to help relieve them. 

A few slogans were being shouted, among them "Free the New York Three!" and "Free Huey!", neither of which had any relevance now, but both were well-remembered. There were some other things being screamed, few of which were printable. Both sides had heard and seen it all before. 

Almost. 

A few of the rioters had strange weaponry in hand, guns which overturned or exploded cars at the touch of a beam. Luckily, none were in the affected vehicles. A police marksman took aim and shot down one of the weapons' wielders. He went down, taking his device with him. But he was too far within the throng for the cops to recover the weapon, as yet. 

Then someone pointed in the direction of the blasted brownstone and shouted. The dust was beginning to clear, and something was visible within it. 

Something shiny. 

When enough visibility was had, those looking towards the site saw what it was: a shimmering silvery sphere, reflecting the afternoon light brilliantly enough to blind someone who stared at it too long. 

A few more bricks fell upon it, bouncing off harmlessly. Then the sphere began to dissipate, from the top up, folding into itself at the bottom, exposing the figures within it. Some were upright, others were prone on the portion of floor still preserved below them. 

Many would recognize the figures of Sub-Mariner and the Silver Surfer. Even more would know the form of Spider-Man. But that wasn't what drew the crowd's attention. Nobody knew if it was cop or carnage-maker who shouted it, but everybody seemed to hear his words: 

"Holy cripes, it's THE HULK!" 

Later on, everybody would agree that it was the quickest end to a riot in recent memory. Cops, revolutionaries, and hangers-on found streets beckoning to them in all directions but one. For once, both sides were united. 

Terror had a way of doing that. 

-M- 

Miranda Slade knew that, sooner or later, somebody was going to show up at her door when she least expected it, and she intended to be ready. But she had always expected it to be The Man. 

Not Gary Gilbert. 

He looked like hell, true enough. His eyes were bloodshot (she didn't think it was from weed, as he rarely indulged), the stubble on his face had gone way past five o'clock, and she'd been in enough bust-ups with the police to know what kind of stains those were on his clothes. 

Gary Gilbert was standing outside the door of her Motel 6 room and she was in a robe, pointing a gun at him in her pocket. 

"Let me in," he said, tightly. 

She stepped to the side and admitted him. Gary staggered in pancaked back-first on the bed, getting it dirty. Miranda locked the door behind him but held onto her gun. 

"Gary," she said, "what the hell is going on?" 

His eyes were closed. "You've got to drive me out of here." 

"What are you into?" 

"Tell you on the way," he said. "I'll tell you on the way." 

"Gary, I hate to repeat myself," she said, standing near the bed, "but WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?" 

"Shut UP!" he hissed, sitting bolt upright and giving her a look that terrified her. "We're going to the Adirondacks. In your car. Right now." 

Miranda sat down on the bed. "You're gonna tell me what's coming down before I move off this mattress. I don't care if you are the Director." 

Gilbert gave her a look of fury, breathing hard through his open mouth. She shrank back. But, in another moment, he seemed to pull back into himself. Stabilizing a bit. Even for him, this was weird. 

"You been watching the news?" 

"A little," she admitted. "Not today." 

"Good," he said. "We got to get up to the Adirondacks, and we got to get up there now." 

"Gary. Is somebody following you?" 

"No. Not yet." 

"Then what—" 

"Listen, bitch, do I have to listen to you do a Joe Friday? Haven't you learned to trust me? Haven't you learned anything about the revolution?" 

"Yes, but—" 

"Then get dressed and get ready to move! Now!" 

"Listen to me! I have given my life, my blood, my existence for the ******* revolution, and for my ******* sisterhood, and I am damned well not gonna be treated like some skag you picked up off the street, or a ******* taxi driver, or a—" 

Gary Gilbert clapped a strong hand over her mouth and another one onto her shoulder. "Listen. I'm going to take my hand off your mouth in a minute. But I want you to use your nose. Now. What do you smell? What do you smell on me, Randa?" 

He waited only about two seconds before taking his hand off. She took a deep breath and said, "Blood." 

He nodded. 

Several minutes later, they proceeded from the motel room, both of them fully dressed, both carrying suitcases. They got into her car and stopped only to pay the bill. Then they were on the road. 

"There'll be a few toll booths before we get there," he said. "Pray before every one of them." 

Miranda snorted. "You want me to pray?" 

"Like never before, Randa. Believe in God just this one day. Then go back to whatever you want." 

"Gary," she said. "One more time. I'm not going to stop driving, I swear. But clue me. What in the name of hell is going on?" 

He started to answer. Then, without a whole hell of a lot of warning, he burst into tears. 

"What?", she said. "What?" 

"Drive," he answered. "Just...drive." 

-M-   


Reed Richards and Captain America had called a war council. The Fantastic Four, the Avengers, and the Asgardians were in attendance. The Inhumans were already in San Francisco, so there was at least standing room for everyone in the Avengers Mansion. 

"All right," said Reed, opening the discussion. "Is any hell not breaking loose anywhere?" 

"I think Hank found a few anthills that haven't been disturbed yet," said Hawkeye, leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head. "Other than that, I dunno." 

"Clint, shut up," snapped the Scarlet Witch. 

"So far, we've got the X-Men still finishing up in Dallas," said Ant-Man, at full size, "Black Bolt and company going to help Daredevil and the Black Widow down in San Francisco, reports of the Sinister Six or whatever they call themselves sighted with Spider-Man, the Masters of Evil still at large, an incident in which the SHIELD ground installation was exposed and an agent wounded. That's not even counting the regular riots, protests, arsons, and even murders around the country." 

"Provided you can call any of that 'regular'," noted the Wasp, somberly. 

Fandral, for once, didn't have his gay Errol Flynn mien. "Verily, Thor," he said, "are affairs ever so confounded in the realm of Midgard?" 

"Often," Thor acknowledged. "But not often as chaos-strewn as this." 

Captain America looked at them. "This isn't chaos, Thor. It's war. Someone is attacking on multiple fronts, like a general deploying troops. But we still don't know who." 

Iron Man, his metal sheath gleaming in the overhead lights, had his red gloves clasped together before him on the table. "The Gilbert murder is what makes me curious," he admitted. "It has to be tied into this, but I'm blamed if I know how." 

"Okay, Shellhead...no offense," amended the Human Torch. "How does it read to you?" 

"I knew Gilbert when both of us were Stark employees," said the armored Avenger. "He went into business with his son, some time ago. Now Gilbert turns up dead, shot in the back of the head, at his son's house, along with a radical named David Graine. But young Gilbert isn't there. Why?" 

"Perhaps young Gilbert is the perpetrator," said Quicksilver. "His absence would indicate such, would it not?" 

The Vision said, "Innocence is assumed until proven guilty in this country, Pietro. Yet...he may be culprit or victim, but it defies logic to think he is not involved." 

The Thing almost banged his fist on the Avengers' meeting table, but caught himself at the last minute. "Blast it ta hell!" he shouted. "We know somethin's goin' on, but instead 'a goin' after somebody, here we sit shootin' the bull about stuff we already know! If all of us was in Frisco, we'd stomp those cruds flatter'n the top of the Torch's head, inside of an hour!" 

"Oh, thanks, Ben," noted Johnny Storm, drily. 

"And while we were in San Francisco, who'd turn up in New York?" asked Reed Richards, confronting his teammate. "Or Denver? Or Washington, D. C.? Or Seattle? Or any number of other places they could strike?" 

"Nuts!" The Thing cracked his huge six knuckles with a sound like limbs being ripped from a tree. "How about we go to Latveria, shake down Doom, and see what he's got to do with this?" 

"Maybe not a bad idea," said Sue Storm. "But without anything definitely pointing in Doom's direction, Ben, I'm not sure it's the right idea." 

The Black Panther noted, "I've crossed swords with Doom, too, not long ago. He could mastermind something on this scale. But it's hard to believe he could command this much loyalty from such a large, diverse group of villains on such short notice." 

Sif rose from her seat. "I would make a proposal, gentlefolk of Midgard." 

"Go ahead, Sif," said Cap, gesturing to her. 

Thor's beloved towered over all three women sitting next to her, and over many of the men as well. "Thor has spoken unto me of this Doom, whom he has battled as well in recent memory. It does seem that we of Asgard might seek him out in his homeland, learn what we can of his involvement or innocence in this regard, and return. This would leave you mortals free to face your customary foes, should they appear. Agreed?" 

The god of thunder turned towards her in concern. "Fair Sif, none shall blackguard thy prowess and strength, least among them Thor himself. But be forewarned that Doctor Doom is, indeed, one of the few mortals who can even challenge a god." 

Hogun said, "Then let him challenge seven gods, and see which prevails. Let us borrow a Quinjet, and away." 

"So say we all," said Hildegarde, drawing her sword as Sif did hers, and clashing them together. 

Cap stood up. "Wait," he said. "I appreciate your offer, Sif, but we need Thor with us. We can't afford to have the Avengers at half-strength, especially if the Executioner and Enchantress pop up again. They're still out there, and I have a feeling they'll be coming back stronger. They always do." 

Balder broke into the conversation. "Then, Captain America, Thor and Sif shall stay with thee, while the rest of our company seek out the mortal called Doom. Hogun, Hildegarde, Fandral, Volstagg, and I shall go forthwith." 

Rising too quickly from his seat, holding a drumstick in one hand and his sword in the other, Volstagg proclaimed, "And let the foul Doom beware, for armor alone is no protection against the steel of Vol—" 

Having mistaken the difficulty of maintaining his balance in the position he found himself in, Volstagg found himself falling back into the chair, and breaking it. He looked up, unspeaking, from the floor. 

"You said it, Volsy," Hawkeye mused, quietly. "You might fall on him." 

"That will be enough, masked one." Fandral stared coldly at Hawkeye. The archer guessed that, despite Volstagg's clumsiness, the Asgardians stood up for their own. He admired that. 

The seven of them stood up from the table and went into an adjoining room to say their farewells. A couple of minutes later, Thor and Sif returned. Seeing them, Clint wondered if it was such a great idea to send the five of them up against a powerful foe whom none of them had faced. Then again, if anybody could face Dr. Doom and come back unscathed, he'd put the Warriors Three, Balder, and Hildegarde high on the list. 

"There's another little matter I'd like to look into," said Captain America, when the Asgardian pair had sat down. "I've been trying to contact the Falcon since yesterday, but he's been missing. As far as I know, nobody's seen him, either as himself or in his secret identity, since he was at the last of our meetings which he attended. I'd like to call it coincidental, but in this atmosphere, nothing's coincidental." 

The Thing nodded. "I hear ya, Cap. Harlem ain't exactly my beat, but if ya need some help, holler loud." 

"Thanks, Ben, but I might be of more help on this one," said the Panther. "I've worked with Cap before, and I've got a secret identity that works down there." 

Ben Grimm flexed a muscle. "Fair enough, T'Challa. But I still got a few advantages on my side, if you need 'em." 

"Point taken," said Cap. He didn't tell them of his other concern: that Sharon Carter was missing, as well. 

"Here's another point to take," said Iron Man. "We've been sitting at the Round Table for about an hour now, and we haven't decided a blamed thing. The whole country's falling apart, the radicals are pulling riots everywhere, Harlem's just about in flames, in case you haven't noticed, and the president may be on the verge of declaring martial law. So where does that put us?" 

Silence for a long moment. 

"Well?" Iron Man continued. 

Reed Richards spoke up. "Where should it put us, Iron Man? You know about the political directive the same as everyone else at this table." 

"The political directive doesn't stop us from saving lives," the Golden Avenger pointed out. "It also doesn't stop us from keeping order." 

"That's the cops' job," said Johnny Storm. "We're not the police, Shellhead. We fight super-villains and save the world." 

"Seems as though we aren't saving the most important part of it right now, Torch," said Iron Man, standing up. "What happens to America while we're all looking for big, bad super-villains to fight?" 

Sue Storm said, "We don't know. None of us know. Isn't it up to America to save itself?" 

"We are America," said Cap, decisively. "Every last one of us, from the weakest kid on life-support in a hospital to the strongest one of us in this room." He made a quiet gesture to Thor, who said nothing. "And, so help me, America will not die in this conflagration. If it does, I'll die with her. But we need to know the source of this chaos. We're not an army, not even with our numbers. We're more like commando squads, and we need to know our target." 

"Which we haven't figured out yet," Iron Man said glumly. "But Gilbert may be the key. We need to investigate his death. He was on the outs with Stark, and I hate to think that could have caused him to turn against America." 

"So," said Reed Richards, "you think it might have been a case of thieves falling out?" 

"It's a place to start," said Iron Man. "I vote we investigate the thing immediately." 

"SHIELD is already doing that, from what I hear," the Panther put in. 

"SHIELD isn't us," Iron Man retorted. 

Captain America regarded his old friend. True, Iron Man was the most conservative of them all, possibly. But Cap had rarely seen him this grim, this troubled. The current crisis was enough to cause that, theoretically. Yet, he'd seen the man in the armor go up against threats to the entire world, even the Skrull Armada in space, and seem cooler under the metal collar than this. There had to be something else causing his tension. And God only knew what it was. 

Before he could form a reply, the door opened and Edwin Jarvis, the Avengers' butler, burst in. "Pardon me," said Jarvis, with some gravity, "but, ah, a party outside requests the presence of Mr. Iron Man." 

"What?" It wasn't always easy to see Iron Man's eyes within his metallic mask, but they were visible now, and showing surprise. 

"Jarvis, this is important," said Cap. "We're formulating strategy." 

"The party outside insisted that, ah, her business was related to the current crisis." 

"All right, Jarvis," said Iron Man, settling himself back in his seat laconically. "Who is this party?" 

"Ah...I believe you know her, sir." 

Curious, the armored titan stood up from his seat. "Carry on, guys. I'll be right back, I hope." He followed Jarvis out of the meeting room, down the hall with its hidden defenses, past a couple of metallic doors, and into the Avengers' drawing room. Someone was waiting for him on the sofa. 

She had on a black catsuit and a gold-colored metal mask, behind which her luxurious black hair flowed like that of a fashion model. 

Iron Man stood still in the doorway. "Madame Masque," he said. 

She nodded. "Nice to see you again, Iron Man." 

He came to sit beside her on the couch. "We always seem to meet in these sort of circumstances." He knew that she was actually Whitney Frost, the daughter of former Maggia lord Count Nefaria, and the former lord of the Maggia herself. That had been before a chemical accident which had horribly scarred her face, and forced her to wear the mask she wore today. As Madame Masque, she had worked for the plutocratic criminal Midas, before Tony Stark won her over at least to a lighter side of grey, if not totally in the heroic camp. Most recently, she had fought side-by-side with him, Daredevil, and Nick Fury against the Zodiac. 

She had also lay claim to both the heart of Jasper Sitwell and, if he dared acknowledge it, perhaps his own as well. 

"In our line, we tend to attract these sort of circumstances," she said. "But that's not important now. I have something you need to know." 

Within his mask, Tony Stark drew a deep breath. "And that is?" 

"You need to know about the Fire." 

-M- 

Zebediah Killgrave looked upon his work and found it good. 

From one side of the spacious park to the other, his subjects awaited his call. Male, female, young, mature, elderly, black, white, Asian, Indian, Hispanic, hippie, straight, all of them united in submission. Which, of course, was the only way they could be united. Under him. 

He was sitting in what passed for a throne, which he'd had his subjects construct from parts of their own cars. It was fairly comfortable, for metal overlaid with seat padding. Well, he told himself, it was the thought that counted. The only minds not overlain by his own in the throng were the rest of the Emissaries of Evil. That could be changed at his whim, and they knew it. But so far, the cooperation had been good. Lucky for them. 

Looking upon the fellow villains who flanked him, the Owl, Cat-Man, Ape Man, Bird Man, Frog Man, Leap Frog, Suprema, Scarbo, and Man-Bull, he realized how proper everything was. They were the smallest aggregation of villains in the entire project (it pleased him to think of it that way: as a project) and yet they had yielded the greatest results. Who would have thought that a motley crew of independents like most of them could have worked so well together, and without any of them being under Killgrave's direct control? 

Of course, that was only the beginning. He had been promised control of California. But how could you keep down a man who could control all human behavior within the range of his voice? California was one of the great centers of national communications...movies, radio, local TV. It wouldn't be that hard to gather sway over more and more, and then expand to New York City, where the great mouths of CBS, ABC, and NBC served the nation and, to a smaller extent, the world. 

He'd allowed his fellows a bit of freedom. That, of course, would have to be planed back in the weeks to come. Nobody could trust their fellow revolutionaries that much. After all, they knew how to make one revolution, and they could make one against you if you weren't careful. That much history, he knew. 

Killgrave had expanded his control base by having his slaves set up PA equipment near the edge of the park. Wherever his voice reached, he induced people on the perimeter to leave their homes, their cars, or their place of business and join in his impromptu commune. The cops had sharpshooters take out a few of the amps, but after Killgrave had stationed people directly in front of them, there had been no more amp-shooting. 

Right now, the scene in the park was not unlike Woodstock. Tents had been set up, impromptu kitchens had been organized, fast food vendors in the area provided meals for all those in hunger, and, yes, the toilet facilities were being strained. But that would change. Very quickly. 

Bird Man was saying something. Killgrave looked at him, annoyedly. "What?" 

"I was saying, how much longer are we gonna wait here?" The beak-nosed man in the red plastic helmet glared at him. "Doin' nothin' but watching these John Q's get back to nature." 

"Never fear, friend Bird Man," said Killgrave, smoothly. "We're about to go on the march." He grasped a microphone at his chair arm, which was tied into the public address system. "My followers! Hear me!" 

He paused, just for effect, as the echoes of his voice resounded all over the park. 

"From this point on, we will march to the city, adding more souls to our community," Killgrave continued. "We will make our way to the communications centers, the radio and television stations, and at each place you will take control, allowing me access to the broadcast facilities. From there, we will prosper, with great numbers joining us by the second. We will be as One. United, indivisible, with true liberty and justice for all. Agreed?" 

A chorus of words, all in the affirmative, came up from everybody but the super-villains. Most of them were getting uneasy, as well. They had a right to be. 

"Very well, then, begin the march," said Killgrave. "Proceed through all exits of the park. But especially towards the Bridge, over which you will carry me. Quickly, now." 

"It better be quick," said Man-Bull. "I'm itchin' for action." 

"With that skin of yours, looks like you'd be itchin' anyway," commented Ape Man. The bull faced him off for a second, then both backed off. Cat Man looked on in amusement. 

Across the bridge, Daredevil and his allies looked on at the mob which was beginning to cross. "Doesn't look good," said DD. "Then again, it hasn't since they arrived." 

Ivan, standing near Karnak, muttered, "You guys better be able to pull this one off. That's all I can say." 

"He has done it once," said Karnak. "Though difficult, he can do it again." 

The Widow nodded towards Black Bolt. "Then what is he waiting for?" 

"The proper moment," said Medusa. "Black Bolt, now!" 

The masked monarch of the Inhumans turned his face towards the skies. True, he had done this before, but it was very difficult. His voice was so incredibly powerful that it could shatter almost anything within a large radius. Thus had he liberated the Inhumans from their Great Refuge when Maximus had placed a Negative Zone dome over their city. Thus had he accidentally destroyed a ship at dock in the harbor of this very city. 

That was why, from his earliest days on, he had to be silent. 

But, during the recent Kree / Skrull War, when Maximus had gained mental control over the Inhuman population for his Kree masters, Black Bolt had tried a new task. He bounced his voice off the ionosphere, with a command to his people to throw off Maximus's dominance. It had worked. It had to be precisely calibrated, or the vibratory force might rebound too strongly and destroy all in its path. He might just as easily have been a mass murderer that day. 

If unsuccessful, he might become one now. 

But it had to be attempted. 

Quite deliberately, Black Bolt spoke. 

It took several seconds to reverbrate back to Earth, but all could hear it clearly. Not only in the park, but in the entire city, and for many miles around. 

"HEAR ME, O PEOPLE OF THE CITY. YOU ARE FREE NOW AND FOREVER OF THE PURPLE MAN'S CONTROL. HE WILL HAVE NO MORE COMMAND OF YOUR MINDS. TAKE YOURSELVES TO SAFETY, AT ONCE." 

All over the park, hundreds of people began to wake up. 

Even Killgrave was struck with the force of the words. It took him a few seconds to recover. When he did, the word he said wasn't printable, but it went out through all the speakers of the park. 

Luckily, nobody was obliged to do what he told them to anymore. 

The Owl took in the situation in a heartbeat. "We have problems," he noted. 

"Problems?" said Killgrave. "Problems? Have a little faith, Owl! Listen to me, my children...stand where you are immediately! There is no danger! Repeat...there is no danger!" 

One of the proles within earshot gave him a two-word reply, and kept running. 

"Owl," said Killgrave. "We have to stand together in this crisis. We can still triumph...Owl? OWL!" 

He looked up in time to see a cloaked figure gliding high overhead on the wings of the breeze. Numbly, he wondered for the nine hundredth time how the Owl was able to do that. But, of course, that didn't matter anymore. 

What did matter was the strange glowing hole that was opening in the air and some very odd-looking figures that were seen within it. None of them was Daredevil, but Killgrave knew a super-hero when he saw one. 

Even if one of them was an unbelievably huge dog. 

"KILL THEM!" he shouted, pointing at Black Bolt, the Black Widow, Karnak, Medusa, Gorgon, Triton, and Lockjaw. He wasn't using Command Power, but he didn't have to. The Emissaries of Evil were smart enough to know that the seven interlopers stood between them and freedom. Ergo, a fight. 

The villains weren't exactly lightweights, but they were more used to the likes of Daredevil and, in Suprema and Scarbo's case, Captain America. They hadn't weighed in against really super-powered opponents yet. To them, it didn't matter. Especially to Man-Bull, it didn't matter. The horned horror pawed the ground with his foot, snorted, put his head down, and charged at the lot of them. Gorgon met his charge by simply standing there, raising one foot, and stamping it on the ground. 

A small crevasse radiated from before the point of impact and widened, just as he estimated it would. Before the Man-Bull could get much further, his body slipped into the crack and only the horns on his head, abutting the walls of the mini-ravine, held him up. He howled in fury and frustration. 

Almost idly, Gorgon ambled over and stamped on both Man-Bull's horns. Screaming in pain, the villain fell all the way to the bottom. 

The objective conditions had changed. 

Ape Man, powered by a gorilla-styled exoskeleton covered with fur, chose the shortest opponent he could find: a large-domed, slight-looking character in green and white. He charged, ready to bear-hug the shrimp into oblivion and then take off for whatever tall timber could be found. Monk Keefer's huge arms spread wide—the suit hardly added anything to his bulk—and then tried to contract around his prey. 

Said prey wasn't there. 

A brief noise from behind caused Ape Man to turn around. The strange, short, masked man with the metal bands about his hands stood there like a statue. Monk's response was a brutish roar (he liked to get in character while in uniform) and a leap at his foe. This time, he'd crush the dwarf under his two feet. 

But the dwarf wasn't there when he came down, and all he did was hurt his ankles. 

The little man was standing to the side of him. "Dammit, will you stay still for a minute! I'm tryin' to hit ya!" Ape Man yelled, not unreasonably. 

Monk's opponent seemed to oblige. Cautiously, Ape Man turned himself to face the unspeaking man, then went at him like a late subway train trying to make up for time. This time, the short man didn't move. 

That is, until Ape Man got within range of him, whereupon Karnak stepped deftly inside Monk's reach and brought his arm down in a flat-handed blow against the center of the ape mask. A small THAK was the only sign of impact, for an instant. 

That, and the fact that Ape Man went over backward, falling on his spine, the mask and then the costume splitting evenly down the front where there had been no seam before, its occupant very unconscious. 

Karnak, taking no notice of his opponent after the deed was done, turned away to see if more work remained for him. 

Cat Man might have come to his partner's aid, except for the fact that he was in full flight from Lockjaw, who didn't seem to much care whether the inhabitant was really human under the cat suit or not. The Tribune was getting whirligigged by Medusa's tornado-activity hair. The Leap Frog and Frog Man were trying to make two giant leaps for crookkind, but both were caught by an ankle apiece in Triton's hands, after which they were slammed to the earth and denuded of consciousness. 

Altogether, the tide of battle had become one even King Canute couldn't turn.   


Suprema, wondering which way to turn, found the black-suited Widow swinging down from a tree to confront her. "Party's not over yet, darling," Natasha reminded her. 

The villainess in green fell into a defensive karate stance. "Just give me thirty seconds, and it will be," she promised. 

She feinted. They circled. Suprema thought she saw a space where Natasha's defense was open. With her best kiiaii yell, she thrust forth fingers that should have torn into the Black Widow's interior and withdrawn something vital. 

Instead, she found her arm pinned between the Widow's own arm and her side, and a fierce elbow coming her way, just under her chin. One WHAM! later, accompanied by a flash of black and white, and Suprema became collapsible. 

"You were off by five seconds," noted Natasha, proudly. 

Scarbo, who had stayed aloof from the battle, made ready to attack the Widow from behind with his nigh-inhuman strength. At that point, he felt something cold and cylindrical by his right ear. "I wouldn't," said a heavily accented voice. "She's got a partner, too." 

The villain tried to straighten up, carefully. When the pressure beside his ear went away, he tried a rapid turn. He managed to see the big man with the mustache standing before him just an instant before the guy brought the pistol barrel down over his bald head. It produced in him a state of consciousness similar to what his sister was experiencing. 

"Thanks," said Ivan Petrov. "I was beginning to think I'd miss out on all the fun." 

Elsewhere, Killgrave tugged his broad purple hat lower over his eyes and wished he hadn't chosen a garb that monochromatically shouted his presence. Could he help it if he liked clothes that were his same color? Except that it'd be very hard to shake the cops now, provided that stupid competitor in black's voice-blast kept them from falling prey to his command voice. Maybe it was only good over a short radius, or only lasted for a brief interval. He could hope for the best. 

In the meantime, he was legging it out of the park as fast as he possibly could. The idiots in the costumes were busy with the others in his employ, and that suited Killgrave fine. 

He didn't anticipate the red-clad form swinging out of the trees by the wire of a billy-club, catching him in a body scissors, and flinging him back on his kiester on the grass. Daredevil disengaged his club and lit on the ground before him, nimbly. "You didn't think I'd forget you after all this, Killgrave? I thought you'd appreciate the ceremony." 

"You...you horn-headed, interfering, resistant, insufferable..." Killgrave, trying to stumble to his feet and recover his hat, ran out of coherent insults. He spluttered, "It took those six freaks for you to beat us!" 

"Oh, I'll admit, the Inhumans were a great help," said Daredevil, holstering his billy club. "But I would have come up with a great plan even if they hadn't. Trust me on that." 

"What?" 

"Come on. After all we've been through, you don't have confidence enough in me to know I'd beat you anyway?" 

Killgrave knew it was the endgame. There was no way left to turn, no place he could run where Daredevil would be unable to catch him. No minions were available whom he could control. Also, he was hardly a master of hand-to-hand combat. 

Still, he decided he'd give it one damned good try. 

Screaming, the Purple Man came at Daredevil swinging both fists, teeth bared, veins standing even more purply at the side of his neck. DD sidestepped him and gave him a backhand blow that sent him flying, leaving his hat behind him. Killgrave groaned, got to his hands and knees, then managed to stand up and turned, seeing Daredevil standing behind him. 

"I could run you down," said DD. "You might as well try a second time." 

"No," said Killgrave. "No. It can't end this way. He said it was the perfect plan. He said..." 

The Man Without Fear strode closer to the Purple Man. "Who said it, Killgrave? Who's behind this?" 

"I...I can't say. I mean, nobody's behind this! Do you think I can't control an operation of this size? Do you think..." 

"Oh, nuts," said Daredevil. "Guess we'll just have to sweat it out of you down at headquarters." 

A red-gloved fist came up and Killgrave saw no more. 

Daredevil stood over his crumpled foe for a long moment. Then he rolled up his right glove a bit to expose a wrist-radio. "Devil to Ironside. Mission accomplished. Do you copy?" 

"Copy, Devil," came a tinny voice from the speaker. "We've been watching on the tube. Coming in to relieve you. What do you suggest re: Mr. Rage?" 

"Suggest we gag him, until we can use truth serum," said Daredevil. "If we can keep him from using his command voice—he's got something we all need to hear." 

-M- 

Nick Fury was pacing what amounted to the bridge area of the Heli-Carrier. Dum Dum, Val, Gabe, Jimmy Woo, Jasper Sitwell, and the Gaff, SHIELD's techno supreme, were also on hand. Several large monitors showed the scene below: Greenwich Village, and smoke coming from a particular bombing site. 

"Good god,"said Dum Dum, softly. He'd seen plenty of similar sights during several wars, but seeing it within New York hit him harder than he'd have expected. 

"Nick," said Val, pointing tentatively at the place from whence the smoke and dust was arising. "Is that where this Dr. Strange was based?" 

"Eminently," Sitwell put in on his boss's behalf. "The alleged sorcerer lived in a brownstone building erected during the Depression by the William Colt company, on behalf of..." 

"Sitwell," said Fury, looking at the building site, "shut up." 

"Yessir," Sitwell answered, and fell silent. 

Jimmy Woo's eyes narrowed as he examined one of the monitors. "Guy, block up 100x on number three. Now." 

The image, caught by one of SHIELD's spy cameras underneath, expanded and narrowed its field until a glimpse of a bright color could be seen in the wreckage and dust. The color was green. 

"I think," said Jimmy, slowly, "we've got an unexpected factor." 

"Oy," said the Gaff, adjusting his glasses. "Pardon me, Colonel, but isn't that, uh, identifiably..." 

Nick Fury was struck dumb himself for an instant. But he had seen the being in question up close and personal several times himself. "The Hulk," he said. 

The Hulk wasn't alone. Sunlight gleamed off another figure beside him, one whom the men of SHIELD had occasion to battle only a year or two back. "It's the Silver Surfer," said Dum Dum. "He's back with the Greenskin already?" 

Sitwell ventured, "We know the two of them worked with the Sub-Mariner once, in that incident in San Pablo. But they were with the Sub-Mariner then. One wouldn't expect to see them with this Dr. Strange, offhand." 

"Well, it looks like they aren't alone," said Val. "I see one guy standing there in shorts, and that must be the Sub-Mariner. Looks like another man and a woman with them. But...Nick, do you see it? That's Spider-Man!" 

"Yep," said Nick, and thumbed a communicator button. "Kid. Can you hear me? Are you there?" 

An instant later, Spider-Man's voice came through. "Colonel. I'm...we're...we made it. I can see your ship." 

"That's what I like about you, kid. You're observant. Tell me you're not standing beside the Hulk." 

"Uh, I'm afraid I am, Colonel. Can you see him, already?" 

"He kind of stands out in a crowd. We've also tentatively i.d.'ed the Silver Surfer and Sub-Mariner. What are they doing there?" 

"Well, they were here when I came in," said Spider-Man. "Hold on, I think Dr. Strange would like to say something." 

"Put him on." 

A much wearier voice came on the line. "Good afternoon, Colonel." 

"Strange. What in Sam Hill's going on down there?" 

"I was bombed. My house was bombed. We escaped behind a shield. I wish to consult with you." 

"Hate to say it, Strange, but there ain't no way I'm lettin' the Hulk, the Surfer, and Buster Crabbe there on board my ship." 

"We will keep the Hulk under control. As for Namor and the Surfer, you need have no fear of them. In this, we must act together. If America is to be spared...then SHIELD, sorcery, and superhuman power must work as one today." 

Fury was silent for a long moment, contemplating it. Dum Dum looked at him, eyes ablaze. "Nick! Are you crazy? They'd tear through the Heli-Carrier like a Messerschmitt through a blamed hot-air balloon!" 

The man in the eye-patch roved the gaze of his one good eye over his staff. Then he said, into his device, "Strange. Can you guarantee...can you swear to me...that you'll keep the rest of that crew under wraps? I've got over 500 men in this tub. I'm not about to lose a one of them today. Is that clear?" 

"Absolutely, Colonel Fury. We will attend to the Hulk." 

"All right," said Nick Fury, stoically. "We'll lower a transport disk. Stand by." 

"One thing remains first," said Dr. Strange. "Hold, please. Surfer, if you would..." 

"What?" Nick Fury paused, then repeated, "What?" 

"Uh, Colonel? This is Spider-Man again." 

"What's going on?" 

"It looks like Doc Strange and his girlfriend and the Surfer are lining up in front of where his house used to be. They're raising their arms...I think two of 'em are chanting...WOW!" 

The monitors recorded a burst of white light that blanked the cameras for a second. The agents of SHIELD on the bridge had to shield their eyes from the glare. 

When their vision returned, they saw an impossibility. 

Where rubble, dust, and smoke had been only seconds beforehand, there now stood once again the brownstone home of Doctor Strange. 

"Colonel...how..." said Jasper Sitwell, finally at a loss for words. 

"I dunno," said Fury. "But after that, they damn well better be on our side. Lower a disk." 

-M- 

Miranda Slade was standing in something straight out of a James Bond or Our Man Flint movie. It was a secret hangar, right in the midst of the Adirondack Mountains. Gary had told her that an old castle formerly used by Dr. Doom was in the area. That was just before he left her alone there, saying he had something to attend to. She wondered if she should have gone with him, despite his instructions. But, the way he was acting, even she didn't dare. 

She stood on the concrete flooring and looked up at the aircraft the hangar housed. It looked recognizably enough like a regular airplane, a bit more teched-up, perhaps, and yellow in color. Gary had absolutely forbid her to go near it. He said, flat out, that he'd kill her if she touched it. She wouldn't have taken that from a cop, or anybody in the Movement. 

From Gary she took it. 

It was a bit cold and, fleetingly, she wondered if this was the kind of place wherein those super-heroes and super-villains you saw in news clips from New York staged their battles. Gary called those fights "entertainment". It probably wasn't too entertaining if you were near Ground Zero. At that, her thoughts flashed on real Grounds Zero, like Hiroshima and Nagasaki. She wondered why she'd connected that way, and then decided she didn't want to know. 

Not too much. 

She spun quickly around at the sound of approaching feet. Feet which echoed off the concrete floor as if they were shod in metal. 

Miranda, opening her mouth in shock, realized that was precisely the case. 

The man that stood not far away from her was clad in a strange, form-fitting armor of red and gold, its design seeming to suggest flames, almost the way they'd be painted on a racing car. The eyes were hidden behind opaque lenses. But the contours of the face within, hardly hidden by the mask the man wore, proclaimed his identity to her. 

The person who wore the armor was Gary Gilbert. 

"Miranda," he said, quietly. "I'm going to give you a gift. You have to use it wisely. Will you promise me that? Will you swear to it? Absolutely?" 

She didn't seem able to answer. 

"Miranda," he said, and one of his hands, impossibly, seemed to burst into flame. 

"Yes!" she screamed, putting one hand before her eyes, going to one knee. "Yes, yes, yes! Oh, God, yes!" 

She saw, behind her shielding hand, the glow of the fire go out. 

"That's good, Miranda. That's very wise. Now, listen closely. The gift I am about to give you is your life. You have to use it wisely, Miranda. You have to keep what we have done here, what you have seen here, a secret. A very big secret, Miranda. Because, if you tell anybody, even the others on the Council, even anybody, I will know of it, Miranda. And I will have to take back the gift I have given you. Immediately. Do you understand?" 

"Yes," she said, barely audibly. 

"Very good, Miranda," said Gary. "Very wise. Go back to your car, Miranda. Drive back to town. Resume your life. This is the end of our work together. I value very much what you have done for me, Miranda. That is why I give you this gift. It was more..." His voice started to break, then he continued. "It was more than I could even give to my father. Do you understand?" 

"Yes." 

"DO YOU UNDERSTAND, Miranda?" 

"YES!" 

"Then go, Miranda. Whether you believe or not...go with God." 

Gary Gilbert pointed an armored hand and a garage door-like section of the hangar rose and retracted into an overhead bay. Miranda saw light pour in from outside. Yes. There was an outside. Her car was outside. She could go to it. She could drive away from this strange world, and return to what she knew. It might be the Underground, it might be fraught with secrecy, danger, and destruction, but at least it was the sort of danger she was familiar with. 

One foot. Then the other. Then a succession of steps, leading her ever more quickly to the light from outside, through the door, to the car which she had parked not far away. Unlike Lot's wife, she did not look back. She thanked God, in Whom she had decided to believe on a trial basis, that she still had a purse and the keys were within it and she could fumble one into the ignition and the motor turned over as it should, oh, praise Jesus, as it should. 

Miranda backed the car dangerously close to a rock wall abutment, turned the wheels to point the car in the right direction, and started down the trail much more rapidly than she should. At that point, she really didn't give a damn. Just getting away from that secret place...and from Gary...was more than enough. 

The door stayed open beside her. Gary Gilbert, in his metal uniform, watched her go. 

He watched her drive down several turns and twists of the mountain road, more than half a mile from the hidden hangar in distance. 

Finally, he pointed his arm, all five fingers pressed together. 

From his fingertips, a bolt of flame shot straight and true and accurately. His aim was never better. Her car intersected the space where his blast was directed at just the precise time. 

There was a hellish blast and fury and sound and rubber and metal and plastic flung high in the air and set tumbling down the mountainside, thankfully not igniting too much brush along the mountainside as it fell. 

Gary Gilbert watched, saying nothing. He didn't like doing that. He really didn't like doing that. 

But some things you really can't leave to chance. He was sure that Miranda, in his position, really would have understood that. 

For a long while, Gary Gilbert stood, and watched the fire. 

To be continued...   
  



	22. Part 22:  Puppets and Dominoes

FIRE! 

Part 22 

by DarkMark 

There was no time for stealth. The Asgardians took the fastest way into Doom's castle, through the huge wooden drawbridge with its metallic reinforcements and deadly defensive devices. They smashed through it within fifteen seconds and kept going. 

Even weaponry geared to repelling the mightiest of super-heroes was hard-pressed to resist the might of five gods of Asgard. 

Balder, Hildegarde, Fandral, Hogun, and Volstagg sprinted into the halls of Victor Von Doom's palace, their footsteps resounding off the carpet-covered stone floors. They were met by a phalanx of robot guards, blasting away at them with ray-weapons, explosives, even liquid that would freeze any living matter as solid as a glacier. The Warriors Five had at their foes, smashing them with mace and sundering them with sword. Only robotic scrap was left in their wake. 

The quintet had been given a blueprint of the interior of Doom's palace from the Fantastic Four's records and thus knew in which general direction to go, though it was known that Doom made alterations to his castle on a moment's notice. All of the defenses, however, could not be foretold. There were too many of them. A few minutes later, Fandral was the first to detect another. 

"Gas!" he reported. 

Hogun sniffed. "Aye, in Freya's name. Enough to kill a band of mortal soldiers, I trow." 

Balder swept his cape before his lower face. "Find the source," he demanded. "Now." 

Hildegarde was the closest. "There," she said, pointing with her sword. It was a fake building stone, made of porous material. 

Volstagg held his nose. "Odin's blood! The noxious poison fair 'whelms e'en the lion of Asgard in his masculine preeminence, and if Volstagg should fall..." 

Balder grasped his partner by the arm. "In truth, Volstagg, you have given inspiration. Come here." 

The corpulent Asgardian allowed himself to be led to the phony stone. "And now, good Balder?" 

"And now, valiant Volstagg, you sit." 

"Sit?" 

Balder nodded. "And be quick about it. You shall block further poison from the hall." 

"Sit, good Balder?" 

"Indeed, sit, friend Volstagg." 

Blustering, Volstagg said, "Indeed, 'tis a dishonor most foul. Volstagg the Valorous was meant to clash sword with the vilest of villains...to topple the most monstrous of foes..." 

"All true, most noble one," said Balder. "But none of us have the bulk for such a task. In truth, 'twill be said that the most honorable of the company of Asgard this day was Volstagg himself, who sacrificed immediate glory that his comrades might complete the mission they otherwise might have failed." 

"In truth?" Volstagg coughed, despite himself. 

"May the Odinsword be drawn if I bear falsely," Balder assured him. 

"Humph. Well, then..." The huge, red-coated warrior backed against the stone and sat down. Nothing shy of a battering ram could budge him, and the output of gas rapidly ceased. 

"You will come for me when it is done?" Volstagg looked up eagerly. 

"We would not dream of leaving the hero of the day," Balder said. 

Volstagg puffed up his chest, a masterful feat indeed, crossed his arms over it, and put on a fierce expression. "Let the varlets come, then. None shall move Volstagg from his post most dangerous!" 

"So be it." The foursome continued at a rapid clip. 

Before too many more steps, a sonic burst assaulted the ears of the four immortals. This was quickly accompanied by a projected illusion of horrific design, made all the more frightening by the fact that the images within it were projected too quickly for the mortal (or even immortal) mind to fully grasp, other than subconsciously. The Asgardians were made of stern stuff, but it threatened to unhinge their mentalities. 

Hogun gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, ignored the sounds he could, and groped along the floor till he found a wall. This he struck, and struck, and struck with his mace, until it gave way. Part of the illusion fell. "Comrades, this way!" he shouted. 

They did not hear. 

The grimmest warrior of them all waded back into the maelstrom, grasped Hildegarde and Balder by the hands, led them to the hole he had broken in the wall, and shoved them through. He came back for Fandral and did the same, then followed. Within the next chamber, the sounds were lessened and the illusions were not present. 

"Friend Hogun," gasped Fandral, leaning against the wall and propping himself up with his sword against the floor, "...gratitude...aplenty." 

"Fie on that," muttered the mustached warrior. "See to our foe, by Odin." 

Hildegarde, pushing a braid away from her face, suddenly narrowed her eyes as she looked in one direction. "There!" She pointed with her blade. A troop of Doom's brown-clad lackeys, armed with high-tech hand-weapons, were racing towards them. 

"Spare them, if you may," ordered Balder. "Our fight is with master, not with minions." 

"They have made it our fight," Hogun retorted, and raced to meet their charge. 

Doom's soldiers shouted various things, some in fear, others in determination, and triggered their weapons at the warriors. Hogun ducked under their blasts, rolling until he was near enough, and then sprang upon them with a power they had never known. By the time Hildegarde, Fandral, and Balder had joined him, not a few of the foe were unconscious, some had broken limbs, and most of the rest were in full flight. Thankfully, none of the soldiers were dead. 

That, for Hogun, was mercy. 

"From here, whence?" asked Hildegarde. 

Balder paused a moment to remember the blueprint of Doom's castle, oriented himself mentally in their most probable location, and turned to the north. "That way," he said. 

It took but a few more battles for the Asgardian quartet to burst through a final wall, breached by mace and swords, and find themselves in the interior sanctum of Victor Von Doom. 

The place was lit both by torch and electric light of a nature unknown to any of them, and, they suspected, to most men of Earth as well. The walls were festooned both with complex devices of informational and destructive intent, and by strange sorcerous symbols, the likes of which even Balder the Brave didn't care to look upon more than necessary. The furnishings themselves were Spartan. Doom went in for splendor in his exterior rooms, but within, he was a functionalist. 

All of that was taken in peripherally. Their main attention was focused on a green-cloaked, grey-armored figure who sat at a computer console, then spun and pointed a metallic finger at them. 

Wordlessly, Hogun the Grim drew back and then threw his mace as hard as he could. 

The weapon struck their attacker full in the head and knocked its target cleanly off his shoulders. The finger pointed towards them spurted a deadly ray which all four of them managed to dodge. The body in armor toppled sideways off the chair, even as the head and mace penetrated into the monitor of the computer with an explosion and sparks. 

For a long moment, none of the warriors spoke, or even much moved. 

Hildegarde broke the silence. "Is he slain?" 

Fandral, stepping forward carefully over the debris, said, "If he is not, they are building more durable mortals than when last I walked this world." 

Balder shouldered past him. "I think not, Fandral. Observe." He reached into the monitor, brushing aside the broken and powdered glass and metal. 

"Touch not my mace!" warned Hogun. 

"I needs must, Hogun," replied Balder. He dragged the Doom-head and Hogun's mace out of the monitor housing. Cradling the head in the crook of his arm, he held the mace out to Hogun with his other hand. Hogun took it, roughly. 

"Is this, then, the end of the one mortals dreaded above all?" said Hildegarde. "For one who fought Thor to a nigh-standstill, it seems quite...unlikely." 

"Unlikely be the word for it, dear Hildegarde," said Balder. "Note yon carcass...as it were." 

She looked, Fandral beside her. "Odin's blood," she said. "'Tis true. I did not see it afore." 

"Nor I," admitted Fandral. "Neither of us looked well enow." 

"What blather the three of you about?" said Hogun. "If Doom is dead, then dead he well may stay." 

Balder pitched him the head, underhanded. Hogun caught it. "Hogun, do you see anything amiss in what I have thrown you?" 

Hogun looked at the wetness on his hand, which held the head by the neck. "No...blood," he said. "A fluid of lubrication. But no blood." 

"Aye," said Fandral. "We have slain not man, but automaton. A robot." 

Hildegarde dashed her sword against the computer machinery, destroying a good part of it. "Our foe has lured us thus basely. But how could he have known?" 

"Did he know, indeed?" asked Fandral. "No traitor exists among Avengers, Asgardians, or Fantastic Four. Can he monitor us from afar?" 

"Perchance," ventured Balder. "Though 'tis possible he was not fleeing us, but..." 

"But going forthwith to strike elsewhere, in secret," pronounced Hogun. "Aye, that's the way of it." 

Fandral said, "Then we must return to the Quinjet, and notify our brethren in arms before our return. If Doom travels, he has one destination in mind." 

A new noise of something moving through the outside hall drew their attention. The foursome quickly, and as silently as they could, made their way to the hole they had broken in through and positioned themselves around it, so as not to be seen from the outside. A great foot came in through the hole and both Fandral and Hildegarde swung their swords at what would be throat-height. 

They stopped just a few hairs' breadth away from the throat of Volstagg. 

He was carrying four of Doom's unconscious guards, two under each arm. Except for quivering, his huge bulk didn't move. His eyes were wide and registered shock, which was understandable. Both Fandral and Hildegarde withdrew their swords. With a sigh of relief, Volstagg dropped all four of his burdens. 

"Friend Volstagg, nigh came thou to losing weight without which you would be lost indeed," remarked Fandral. 

"By the Rainbow Bridge itself, are you not perceptive enough to tell the Lion of Asgard from a common foe?" spluttered Volstagg. "Or e'en an uncommon one?" 

"Your duty was to guard the gas-grate," snapped Hogun. "Why are you here?" 

"Forsooth, the thing exploded behind me," said Volstagg. "'Twill leave much for the seamstress to be done, I fear. The blast did draw many of the foemen towards me, which, of course, was a far greater danger than the gas explosion. Within seconds, the lot of them had tasted the might of Asgard's greatest warrior." 

"Most likely, you fell upon them," said Hogun. 

"Peace, Hogun," said Balder. "I accept your action and explanation as that of a warrior most worthy, Volstagg." 

The huge Asgardian beamed. "Praise could only come more highly from Odin, or Thor, friend Balder. But stay! What vile form bleeds blackly upon the floor? You have already triumphed?" 

"In a way, my friend," said Balder, clapping him on the shoulder. "We have more work to do." 

"And villains to vanquish?" 

"Most assuredly, friend Volstagg. Most assuredly." 

-M- 

"The Fire?" said Iron Man. 

Madame Masque nodded. 

"I don't know everything, but I've been party to more than you would be, since I still have a few friends in the Maggia," she said. "Also, my status is kind of iffy as a heroine, so somebody tried to contact me as well, to see if I was buyable." 

"Tell me everything, Whitney," said Iron Man. "Everything you know. Then we have to tell the rest." 

"You can tell them. I'm not comfortable with all those hero-types." 

He grasped her wrist, gently but firmly, with his iron glove. "This is too big. You have to let us know. I'll vouch for you, and you won't face any reprisal." 

"Let go of me, or you're getting nothing." She stared him down. 

Reluctantly, Iron Man released her wrist. "All right, Whitney. Now, talk to me. Please." 

"Better," she said. "All right. From what I can tell, this whole operation with the villains, it's a coordinated effort. The code word for the whole op seems to be 'Fire'. I don't know a lot more, but it's tied to the radical stuff in some way." 

"Tell me something I don't know," he said. 

"How can I? I don't know what you know already." 

"Go ahead. I'll prompt you when I need more detail." 

"All right." The gold-masked woman grasped her knees to give her hands something to do. "Don't ask me how I was found, but some guy got the number of the place where I was staying. He addressed me as Madame Masque. Probably doesn't know who I was..." 

"Who you are." 

"Thank you. I was out to find out as much as I could about this guy so I could go discombobulate him, but he didn't give a name. Just said that the final offensive against super-heroes was about to begin, and there was a place for me and over one hundred thousand dollars if I cooperated." 

Iron Man considered. "Multiply that by the number of villains involved in this thing, and someone's got a mighty large petty cash drawer." 

"If they all get paid," Masque pointed out. "I asked where I could meet him, just to track him down. He gave me a password, 'Fire', and said he'd get back to me. But he never did." 

"Smart guy." 

"Possibly. Like I said, I still have a few ears in the Organization. They told me that Whiplash, who used to be a friend of ours, ditched and hitched with the new operation. A while back, that would have meant a contract on his head. Now, they just wait to see if he'll have a head after this is finished." 

"Whitney." Iron Man spread his hands. "Tell me how this connects to Simon Gilbert." 

"Never heard of him," she said. 

"He's an industrialist," said Iron Man, tensely. "One of Tony Stark's rivals. Murdered. Yesterday. They found the body of a known radical right beside him, a man named Graine. Do you have anything on either of them?" 

"No," she said. "I'm sorry." 

Automatically, Iron Man rubbed the back of his neck, even though he knew he couldn't feel it through his armor. "It's all right, Whitney. You've helped. We've just..." He sighed. "We have all of the puzzle pieces here, and no tray. But at least you've given me another..." 

"Don't say it." He knew, behind her mask, she was smiling. 

"Well, not in that sense," he said, smiling behind his own mask. "But, Whitney, I wonder." 

"About what?" 

He shifted position on the sofa. "I wonder if I'm not connected in this matter a lot more than I know about. Simon Gilbert was an employee of Stark Industries before he went into business with his son. What was the kid's name? Gary. Radicals have been enemies of Stark ever since the first protest signs went up in the Sixties. There's a connection to Stark, and thus to me. And, God help me, I still don't know what it is." 

"Maybe," the woman said, crossing her legs elegantly, "whoever's responsible is killing industrialists. In that case, Tony Stark might be high on the list. They may also have killed Gilbert's son." 

"Could be," he acknowledged. "But I doubt it. Graine was killed alongside Simon Gilbert. Gary was missing, and so was his car. Supposing Gary walked in on the murder of his father, shot Graine...just supposing...and took off in the car." 

"In fear," said Madame Masque, "for what he'd done." 

"Yes," said Iron Man. "Or maybe not in fear." 

"So...you think this Gary Gilbert could be the key to what's happening?" 

"I think he's the best lead, maybe the only lead, we've got so far." He clashed his metal hand into his palm, striking sparks. "Damn! America may die, Whitney, and all because I'm too dumb to see the connections." 

Masque sighed. "Should I let you get back to the Avengers?" 

"You're coming with me." 

"I won't." 

"You have to!" 

She stood and gave him a look of anger. "Iron Man, do not presume to tell me what I can or cannot do. I walk my own path, and if it crosses yours, it'll be in friendship. But never as a lackey." 

He stood up to face her. "Then you leave me no choice." 

"What?" 

Iron Man grasped both her wrists. "I'm taking you in there and you'll tell them everything you just told me, and whatever else you know. If you don't, I'll turn you over to the authorities and tell you everything I know about you. Including your past as the director of the Maggia." 

Masque's eyes blazed behind the mask of gold and steel. "And would you have me tell the cops just what I know about you...Tony Stark?" 

He hoped he hadn't given himself away with a move. "Pull the other leg," he said. "I won't activate my jets." 

"Don't play games with me," she said. "I spent enough time with you in Midas's lair. I know your moves, your stance, your way of speaking. When you pretended to be a man impersonating Tony Stark, I realized you were the real article. Even though you've disguised your voice with a mechanical distorter, oh, yes, Tony, I know it's you. If you let the sword fall over my head, I'll cut the thread holding the one over yours. Well, Tony?" 

After a moment of silence, Iron Man shifted his grip to one of her upper arms and shoved her towards the meeting hall. "Ouch!" she complained. 

"You're coming with me," he said, "and you're going to give them a recital, and I don't care what else you tell them." 

She hissed. "I could very easily get to hate you," she said. 

"Quit trying to get on my good side," said Iron Man. 

A few steps later, he stopped, bringing her up abruptly. "What now?", asked Madame Masque. 

"My God," he said. "Oh, my God..." 

She turned to look at him, curiously. 

"Fire," he said. "Radicalism. I think...I think I'm beginning to see it." 

"See what?" 

He snapped his helmeted head back her way. "Whitney. Go to the Avengers and the FF. Tell them what you know, what I've said. I have to go. I'll be in contact with them by radio." 

"Tony..." 

"Don't call me that. I have to go!" 

He sprinted off down the hallway, his iron boots clanging roughly on the marble. Madame Masque looked after him, until he turned a corner. A few seconds later, she heard a door open and slam shut. Shortly after that, she presumed he was in the air. 

Someone was by her side. The Avengers' butler. "Ah, miss? Is there something I can do?" 

"Yes," she said. "I suppose there is. Take me to the Avengers." 

-M- 

The hardest part of it for Gary Gilbert was the waiting. 

Someone had to have picked up on his trail by now. There would be no way he wouldn't be suspect, with his father's and Graine's corpses in his home. Also, someone might pick up on the absence of Miranda Slade. Not as likely, but still a possibility. He had ditched his car elsewhere, left no clues–-he hoped!—to where he was going. It was just too traceable. 

And now there was blood directly on his own hands. Even within metal gloves. Blood that could not, could never be washed away. 

His own father's blood. 

And those of two friends, two allies. 

Not one enemy had died by his hands. He was a patricide now, a betrayer of his own men (one of whom was a woman...madly, he couldn't prevent his mind from trying to turn it into a joke). For that he would damn himself, regardless of what came afterward. 

Atheism was looking like a more attractive form of belief to Gary Gilbert now. For, if there was a God, if there really was a Heaven and Hell, there was little doubt in his mind as to which realm would claim him. 

That might be poetic justice. 

Or might it? 

One's own life was a poem, a work of art, had to be. Written by oneself, or circumscribed by someone else who held the pen. There were few men of vision, few men with the ability to control. He had found himself to be one of them. It was a burden, as his clear sight of what had to be done was a burden. Sometimes he wondered if he should pray the Jesus-prayer, that this cup be taken from his hands. 

But no. 

His was the vision, his was the foresight, his was the strength, his was the ability. From whom much is given, much must be expected. Before him, the Movement and the super-villain cadre were just bunches of amateurs. He was the one who put both of them on a working basis. 

Neither of them knew what his true purpose was. But secrets had to be kept, until the final revelation, when it was too late to stop the Purpose. 

And how many would die? Hell, beside him, even Harry Truman would look like a saint. 

There was still time to back out. Time to let everything be as it would be otherwise. Time, perhaps, to escape to another land, to assume another identity, to live off money he'd stashed away in Swiss bank accounts. Time to turn his back on everything... 

...on the Fire. 

No. 

Once the journey was started, there was nothing left to do but follow it to the end. He'd known it would end like this, had planned it for years. He was a man of destiny, and destiny could not be denied. 

A song came to him from a few years back, when he was heavily into rock, when Steppenwolf was one of his favorite bands. A track from one of their lp's that had spoken to him, directly to him. Perhaps it was an inspiration for what he had done. Those lines... 

"There's a monster on the loose,   
It's got our head into the noose,   
And it just sits there...watching..." 

Gary Gilbert sighed. Overseas, there would still be the relics of Steppenwolf. None would know how they had inspired him, in part. But that hardly mattered now. 

Only one thing remained: the waiting. Waiting for the sign from his least trusted but most fearful operatives. 

In his red and gold Firebrand armor, Gary Gilbert sat beside his yellow plane, and waited. 

-M- 

When the entry disc came up bearing six people, none of which were exactly known for respecting authority, everyone in SHIELD went on alert. 

Fury had told his people to keep their weapons pointed downward and to by no means give signs of hostility. Even so, he'd met the Hulk twice, up close and personal, and knew he'd rather have a ticking H-Bomb on board than Mr. Green Genes. But it wasn't like he had a choice, right now. 

The disc settled into place on the holders, bearing Spider-Man, a weirdly-garbed guy in a red cape that just had to be Dr. Strange, some woman with white hair curled into two horns at her temples, the Silver Surfer, who not long ago had tried to destroy SHIELD single-handedly, the Sub-Mariner, who'd been at odds with America off-and-on since 1939, and, not to be overlooked, the Hulk himself. He was the one who drew most of Fury's attention. The others were rational. The Hulk was possibly the most destructive single force on Earth, and he'd been taken aboard a flying vessel full of almost 500 people. 

He could probably bring the whole thing down inside of five minutes. 

The protective-suited men of SHIELD stood round about the disc, at what Fury termed a safe distance. Dum Dum, Gabe, and Val were among them. One section of the circle of agents was open. Fury approached the sextet in that direction, casually but cautiously. 

"Thanks for comin' by," he said. "The name's Fury. Col. Nick Fury. While you're here, you'll be treated as guests. Whatever hostilities there was beforehand, they're forgotten on my part, now." 

"Speak for yourself, landman," muttered Sub-Mariner. 

The Silver Surfer held his board and his peace. The Hulk looked wary, sniffing the air, looking at the men assembled round about. Spider-Man said, "Colonel, these are the Defenders. This gent here is an old friend of mine, Dr. Strange. Doc...the Colonel." 

Formally, Stephen Strange stepped forward, Clea beside him. He extended his orange-gloved hand. "Well met, Colonel. You think we may be of assistance in this matter?" 

"I sure as hell hope so," confessed Nick. "You got everything under control on your end?" 

"As much as we can," admitted Strange. 

"Don't like the sound of that." 

"Neither do I," Strange said. "But if things go awry, you can count on myself, the Surfer, and Namor to handle matters." 

Fury sighed. "Guess that'll have to do. Come with me." 

Fury led the way towards a hall. The Defenders and Spider-Man followed. The men of SHIELD let them go, but began to follow up on them. The Hulk turned, and aimed a savage glare at them. "Soldiers go away." 

"Colonel Fury..." said one agent, making sure his weapon was off safety. 

"Soldiers GO AWAY! Or Hulk will SMASH!" 

Instantly, Dr. Strange knew the problem. The U. S. Air Force had been chasing the Hulk for years at the behest of Gen. "Thunderbolt" Ross, and the Hulk had an instinctive reaction to anyone in a military-style uniform, thinking them (not incorrectly) to be a threat. The SHIELD suits were close enough to soldiers' uniforms, and their plasma rifles and other weapons branded them as enemies in the Hulk's mind. "Hulk," he warned. "These are our friends." 

"No soldier is the Hulk's friend." 

Clea, bravely, went to the Hulk and grasped what she could of his massive right arm. "Green one, be at peace. Today we fight in a common cause. Even the soldiers are on our side." 

Nick Fury rushed to the rear. "Men, fall back. Make yourself scarce. That's an order." 

"But, sir," said one hesitant Female Fury. 

Fury took out a cigar and stuck it cold in his mouth. "Which one'd you rather argue with, Huff? The Hulk, or me?" 

"Uh...neither, sir," she said. 

"Go." 

The men and women of SHIELD filed out, with Val giving Nick a meaningful look as she left. Nick forced himself to look the Hulk in the eye. "Okay now, big fella?" 

The Hulk said nothing. But at least he wasn't tearing anything up. 

"All right," Fury said. "Come with me. We ain't got much time." 

Without much conversation, the six superbeings followed Nick Fury to the hallway and through it, passing by a number of doors, all of which were closed and locked. Spider-Man figured that three of their company could smash through those doors without problem, and he might even be able to essay it. But everybody was behaving, for now. That was a relief. 

Finally, Fury came to a door at which he had to give his handprint, a retinal identification, and a voice verification. It opened for him, and, with a glance at those behind him, he led them inside. 

The room was SHIELD's monitoring complex, filled to the gills with large-sized video screens carrying scans of different parts of the world, news broadcasts from every major network in the world, radio communications, satellite feeds, computer data readouts, and everything else imaginable. There was also a feed to the ESP division, which none of them but Fury knew about. The first techno who saw the Hulk and company gaped like he'd seen Beelzebub. It didn't take long for the mood to spread. 

Nick Fury stood stalwart. "The green guy and his friends are with me. I want you all to stay calm. No provocation. We're in control. Understood?" 

No answer. 

"Good. Get back to your jobs. I'll keep 'em entertained." He lit his stogie with an aluminum lighter left over from the War, snapped it shut, and proceeded down the walkway to a point beneath a certain viewscreen, where he halted. 

"First stop on our tour," he said. "See that?" 

None of the Defenders or Spider-Man had to answer. 

There on the screen before them was a live broadcast by helicopter from Harlem. The district was up in flames, rivaling Watts in '65. All that could be seen was burning buildings and smoke. No humans were in the picture, and for that, all were grateful. 

Fury clicked a remote control on his wristband. The scene shifted. In Seattle, CBS was covering the takeover of the Space Needle by militants armed with weaponry that had already cut down several policemen. At that news, Nick Fury stiffened, and Spider-Man could guess why. 

The director of SHIELD clicked the control time after time. More scenes of devastation, destruction, and unrest, everywhere he chose, in Miami, Austin, Chicago, Los Angeles, Newark, and elsewhere. The most upsetting scene was in Washington, D. C., where protesters had spray-painted obscenities on the Lincoln Memorial and were massed not far from the White House. The police, the National Guard, and other agencies were hard-pressed to keep them back. Some casualties had been reported on both sides. 

It was making Kent State look like a cakewalk. 

"Why?" asked the Silver Surfer, in hushed tones. "For what purpose do they do these things?" 

Spider-Man answered. "Maybe even they couldn't tell you, Surfer. A lot of it's the war...nobody wants to go, lots of people think we should never have been there...a lot of it is a bunch of people who want to overthrow the government. Some of it's just wanting to be part of whatever's coming down." 

"Even if it destroys?" 

"Sometimes...especially then." 

Namor lay a hand on the Surfer's shoulder. "Be at peace, silvery one. Even Namor cannot fathom all the motives of surface men, though Atlantis has known war time and again itself." 

The Hulk rumbled. "Bad pictures. Make pictures go away!" 

"Please, Hulk," Clea pleaded, standing before him. "We all need you in this matter. Stephen...your 'Magician' needs you. And I need you. Will it help if I...if I hold your hand?" 

The green-skinned giant looked at her, quizzically. Everyone in the room, Defenders included, went on red alert. 

Then the Hulk, almost gently, extended his hand. Clea placed her small, white left hand within it. "Clea," Dr. Strange warned. 

The Hulk's huge green hand closed about Clea's, and held it tenderly enough that, if it had been an egg, the shell would not have broken. The sorceress smiled. "It will be all right, Stephen. I knew the Hulk would not hurt me." 

Strange sighed. "Your faith is more than a match for mine. Be careful with her, Hulk." 

"Hulk will not hurt Magic Woman," asserted the colossus in torn purple pants. 

Nick Fury said, "They found out they can get attention through the violence. A lot of things they wanted, hell, they were legitimate...some weren't. But we wasn't movin' fast enough for 'em. And if you think the only thing standin' between you and the Promised Land is the way things are today, you might get to thinkin' about tearin' down what's between you and it, too." 

"And do you think so, Colonel Fury?" said Dr. Strange, quietly. 

"You know better 'n that," scoffed Fury. "The world oughtta known better than that. We've been through it before. Russia in '17, China in '49, Cuba in '59. Everybody knows what they wanted. And everybody shoulda known what they got. It's just that some probably didn't wanna believe it." 

"Or maybe," said Spider-Man, "they were thinking of America, in 1776." 

Fury turned on him. But Spider-Man stood his ground. After a moment, Dr. Strange said, "So what do you intend to do, Colonel?" 

The old soldier took his time about answering. "I want ya to help me. If we grab the guy behind this whole mess, we may figure out how to unravel it. If America falls, you gotta bet the whole world ain't gonna be far behind it. And as long as I live, America ain't gonna fall. I swear it. I need your help." 

"You've already got mine," said Spider-Man. "You know that." 

"And I will stand with Stephen," said Clea, simply. 

"You may count on the powers of Dr. Strange, as well," answered the magician. "But the Defenders are individuals. They must answer separately." 

"What kinda group you got here, anyway?" asked Fury, almost angrily. 

"Not a group," said Sub-Mariner. "More of a loose alliance. But this destruction is wanton and purposeless. When I fought America, it was with a definite purpose in mind, and I learned early on not to endanger human lives. Also, I suspect the hand behind this chaos is the one who orchestrated the attack on Atlantis. I throw my lot in with you." 

The Surfer was the next to speak. "Humanity makes me sick. Its wars, its petty tyrannies, its striving for temporal power, when it should strive for harmony, peace, and advancement...I wish to vomit over this entire globe. But one thing makes me sicker than humanity. That is the death of innocents. In this, I stand with the Defenders." 

Fury took the lead. "That just leaves you, big guy," he said, addressing the Hulk. "Your friends are all on my side. You don't like the pictures? I don't, either. But the only way to make 'em go away is stand with us...and do something to make 'em stop. We can't do it without you. So what's your choice?" 

The Hulk stood, unmoving, looking back at Fury. Within his grasp, Clea tried to move her hand softly, to reassure him. 

"The Hulk will help," he said. 

Nick Fury had followed the creed of never letting them see you sweat long before anybody made it an advertising slogan. It got him through World War II, Korea, years of undercover work for the CIA, and wars against HYDRA, AIM, and several lesser entities. But this time, he had to work hardest to repress his sigh of relief. 

"Good," said Nick. "That's good. Now listen up, all of ya. We got a key to this operation. The key is named Gary Gilbert. He's the son of that munitions magnate that just got shot in his house. Spider-Man found out all about it, or what there was to find. If we find him...we may find out how to win this one. For America." 

"Say on," said Namor. 

"The ESP guys ain't been able to track him yet," admitted Fury. "But seein' you all here together gives me ideas. I hooked the kid into their network not long ago, and it got results. I'm thinkin' with the Doctor there, and the Surfer boostin' their power, we might get a line on Gilbert toot-sweet. Then you go after him, with our help, and we find out what we wanna know." 

"You have an ESP division?" murmured Strange. "Then the rumors of the government's involvement in that are true." 

"Depends on what rumors you wanna believe," said Fury. "What of it, Surfer? You on board?" 

-M- 

In a phone booth outside a Walgreen's in the Bronx, a longhaired man whose hands were still shaking managed to dial a number he had been given. Someone picked up on the other end. A voice he had never heard before said, hollowly, "Password." 

"Fire," said the man. "Uh...Fire." 

"Yes?" 

"I was told to report on, you know, super activity. I got somethin' to say." 

"Yes?" 

"In the Village. The protest scene. We saw a bunch of 'em. The Hulk. The Hulk was there." 

"The Hulk?" 

"Yeah. And Spider-Man. Some other guys. And the Silver Surfer." 

A pause. "The Silver Surfer?" 

"Yeah. I never seen him before. But I know it's him. I could tell." 

"You are certain of this?" 

"Yeah. And get this. I ain't hardly ever seen it before, but the SHIELD Heli-Carrier came over. It let down some kinda Frisbee, about as wide as the street. And all of 'em got on it, and it flew back up to the Carrier. I wouldn't lie to ya, man. It really happened." 

"The Surfer was on that disk?" 

"Yeah." 

"And he is now in the Carrier?" 

"I think so, yeah." 

The phone on the other end clicked off. 

The longhaired man stood in the booth, holding the receiver to his ear for a few moments. Then he slammed it back on the hook, and didn't bother picking up the change that jingled into the coin return. 

He got into his Dodge, started it up, and pointed it down a road going due north. He had never been to Canada, never even considered going there to dodge the draft. But if they'd let him in now, he'd salute the maple leaf, sit down beside polar bears, and be glad of it. 

They busted him on the border for two ounces of pot he had in the lining of his suitcase, which he had forgotten about completely. He spent the next night, and several more nights, locked in jail. 

That was okay by him. It was better than what was happening outside. For sure. 

-M- 

Gary Gilbert, using a portable phone of his own design, broke the connection with his informant and dialed another number. Even Ma Bell didn't know about this one. Hell, even the Yippies, those masters of phone phreakery, didn't know it. 

The voice of the Puppet Master answered. "Fire," he said, without being prompted. 

"This is Gilbert," said Firebrand. "Activate." 

"Now?" 

"At once." 

The Puppet Master hung up without saying goodbye. For that, Gilbert wanted to brutalize him. But that was all right. He'd play his part, then he'd die like the rest of them. 

It was all a matter of keeping things going according to plan. Just making sure that, once you touched the lead domino, all the others were lined up and ready to fall. 

And they always fell in a very short matter of time. 

-M- 

The Puppet Master turned from the phone to face the Mad Thinker. He clasped his hands to stop them from shaking. "What would you calculate our chances are of making this work?" he asked. 

"Don't be ridiculous," said the Thinker. 

It was the first time the puppeteer had seen his partner unwilling to make an estimate of success or defeat down to the twenty-first decimal. But it didn't matter. He went to a safe, spun the dial, heard the tumblers fall, and unlocked it. A small, lead-lined cloth hung over an even smaller object within. 

Donning a pair of radiation-proof gloves, the Puppet Master whipped the cover away from the figure, grasped the clay likeness, and pressed it to his head. 

He began to transmit his thoughts to the one whose image it bore. 

He knew they would be obeyed. 

-M- 

"Surfer? You on board?" 

The silvery alien looked as though he was about to answer. Then, for a moment, he froze, his mouth half-open, his blank eyes giving no clue to his emotions. 

Strange and Clea sensed some unknown presence. With his amulet, the sorcerer supreme began to scan his partner's mind. 

At once, Spider-Man's spider-sense began to go off with a twelve-alarm fury. He crouched, in combat mode, and shouted, "Guys! Colonel! Something's about to blow!" 

That was the last thing anybody remembered hearing before the Surfer whipped up his arms and blew a hole straight through the side of the Heli-Carrier with his Power Cosmic. 

Clea cried out in horror. The Hulk let go of her hand and shouted in surprise and rage. Nick Fury went flying over the floor, bowled over by the Surfer's passage. Namor, half-aware of what he was doing, tried to follow, but the Surfer's passage was much too fast for him. 

A tremendous suction of air began to pull everyone and everything not tied down, and much of what was, out the hole the Surfer had made in the vessel. 

Worse than that, the floor began to tilt at a dangerous angle. 

Nick Fury, his legs wrapped around a support pole, stabbed his finger at a wristband communicator. He yelled into it before anyone on the other end could speak. "Hit the triad beams! We're capsizin'!" 

Spider-Man, despite the suction power of his feet, was swept away towards the hole in the wall. 

The Heli-Carrier began to fall from the sky. 

-M- 

In Avengers Mansion, Hawkeye was questioning Jarvis. "So where the heck did Shellhead go?" 

The butler spread his arms, helplessly. "I don't know, Master Hawkeye. He didn't tell me. I doubt that he told anyone." 

Both of them were in an outer hall, alone. The other heroes were still conferring with Madame Masque about her revelations. But Ant-Man and the Wasp suddenly burst onto the scene. "Clint," rapped Hank Pym. "We've got trouble." 

The archer jerked his head in Ant-Man's direction. "Like what, Hank?" 

"We've just gotten reports. The Masters of Evil have regrouped and struck in Atlanta. The Frightful Four unit is in Seattle. The FF are leaving. We've got to go. Now." 

"Anybody found Iron Man yet? Or Cap?" 

"We're leaving without them." 

For an instant, Hawkeye hesitated. Then he clapped Jarvis on the shoulder. "We'll be back, Jarv. Keep the leftovers ready." 

"Always, Master Hawkeye," said Jarvis, to their retreating backs. "Always." 

-M- 

Gwen Stacy always checked the spyhole before she opened the door for anybody who rang it. Including Peter. 

This time she saw Norman Osborn outside. Her jaw dropped for a second, then she unlocked the door, unlatched the chain, and let him in. "Mr. Osborn," she said. "Where have you been? Harry's been worried sick about you." 

The man looked appropriately grieved. "I know, Mrs. Parker," he said. "I know. That's just what I have to talk about. May I come in?" 

"Of course," said Gwen. She saw no reason to be suspicious of him. After all, he was the father of one of their best friends. She had met him on numerous occasions, and even admired him. As he stepped inside, she heard May wailing in the next room for her afternoon feeding. "Can you excuse me for a moment? May wants her bottle." 

"Oh, I'll see to that," said Osborn, and put his hand about her mouth from behind. 

Gwen's eyes widened as a cloth dipped in something more potent than chloroform went over her mouth and nose. She struggled, but Osborn seemed almost as strong as her husband. After three seconds, her legs decided to fold under her and Osborn let her fall to the floor. 

Everything was darkening, but she could hear May wailing, and hear Osborn talking. 

"I'll take care of your child. I'll see someone looks after her. Then you and I will go somewhere, Mrs. Parker. We're going to play a game with your husband, Peter. We're going to play bridge." 

The last thing she saw, before the darkness, was his eyes looking down upon her. 

They were lit with a goblin's fire. 

To be continued...   
  



	23. Part 23:  The Big Fall

FIRE! 

Part 23 

By DarkMark 

Iron Man thought he knew where to go. It was a big gamble, but there was too much involved now not to take it. So, using his repulsors for a pair of dice, he cut into the mountainside, watched rock and soil spatter away as gravel and brown mist, and was gratified to see a steel door revealed behind it. Flying, he shut off his repulsors, balled his mailed fists, and poured all the power he had into his boot jets. 

He hit the door like the most powerful battering ram known to mankind. 

Luckily, it gave way with a screech and sparks and rending of metal. He penetrated the barrier and saw, beyond him, a slew of men in yellow uniforms with hatbox-style helmets. They had weapons almost outside the ken of human science. He had his armor, and surprise. 

Within five minutes, he'd mopped up the lot of them. 

He grabbed the one nearest to hand once it was done, burying his fist in the man's yellow jersey, and jerked him up from the floor. "Where's Modok?" 

The AIM agent, his eyes hidden behind the mesh of his viewplate, shook his head. 

"Where is Modok?" Iron Man repeated, louder, and heated the glove of his hand that wasn't holding the man's shirt. It was easy enough to smell the burning scent it gave the air. Nobody wanted such a thing clamped across their face, even a masked one. 

"Below," rasped the agent. "Five levels. There's—" 

The Avenger didn't wait to hear what there was waiting for him. He threw the man down, grabbed some collapsible metal drills from his belt, affixed them to his hands, adjusted them, and bored through the floor with them. 

After fighting his way through four levels, the gold-and-red gladiator crashed through the ceiling of the final chamber. A squad of armed AIM goons and, more significantly, three Dreadnought robots, one of whose kind had almost killed Nick Fury, stood between him and his quarry. 

At the other end of the room was a hideous parody of a man, whose head bulked larger than his stunted body. The body was encased in a flying chair-device, which was the only thing he had to mobilize himself; his frail form couldn't move his massive head. The head was encircled with a band of metal encasing some high-tech devices, and there were enough weapons in the chair to lay waste to several city blocks. 

Iron Man knew him at a glance. 

Modok. 

Iron Man stood ready. "Your call," he announced. "I'm just here for information." 

"And what," said the huge head in a guttural voice, "do you offer in return?" 

"I won't tear up your tin men or beat the hell out of your guards." 

Modok laughed. "Even you would be daunted by my Mark III Dreadnoughts. But...amuse me. What do you wish to know?" 

"Gary Gilbert," he said. "I want to know your dealings with him. I want to know where he is." 

One of the monster's arms lifted, casually, and he pointed towards Iron Man. "Kill him," he ordered. 

That, thought Iron Man, was gratifying. At least Modok had confirmed the connection. He hurled himself into battle against the three robots and the heavily-armed men, not discounting the menace of Modok himself. 

The trick was to get into close quarters with the enemy. No matter what the AIM men were armed with, they were disadvantaged as soon as he leaped into their midst. Despite the high-tech blasters and gimmicks they carried, they just didn't have the physical power of the guy in the armor. He sent them flying in all directions within seconds. 

The Dreadnaughts were another matter. 

All three of them seemed to move in concert. They were stronger, swifter than men. One of them grabbed him in hands at least as powerful as his own and held him immobile. Another turned a blast of freezing liquid at one half of his armor, threatening to shatter it into shards. The third poured a burst of fiery fluid at the other half, attempting to roast him alive. Even through his insulation, Tony Stark could feel the extremes of temperature. 

But they hadn't reckoned on the Thermo-Coupler within his armor, which kicked in immediately and began channeling the cold and heat extremes into added power for him. It took some straining, and he knew he had to break out soon, before the treatment got too much for even him. The man of iron strained every enhanced muscle he had against the grip of his robot captor. 

With a roar of effort, Iron Man broke free, jetted up from the floor, jackknifed near the ceiling, and came down, fists first. 

He smashed Dreadnought One to bits. 

Then he took the limbs of the shattered robot and used them as clubs against the other two. The battle was violent but swift. Within seconds, Iron Man stood triumphant among the scatterings of three metal bodies. 

That still didn't account for Modok. 

The master of AIM sent a blue beam from the projector on the band over his forehead towards Iron Man. The mechanical warrior barely managed to dodge. It ripped a hole in the wall behind him and several other walls beyond that. Modok wasn't hesitating about unleashing the next blast, either; a ray of red heat emanated from the same projector and sought out Iron Man like a heat-seeking missle. 

Even as it was fired, Iron Man raised his palms and set off his repulsors. 

The powerful rays of the Golden Avenger's gloves diffused the heat-blast, scattering it about the room and causing damage wherever it touched. But Iron Man didn't stop there. His repulsors smashed at the projector on Modok's head itself, blowing it apart with a SPAAK! of feedback and electrical power. The hyperheaded villain couldn't avoid an expression of shock and surprise on his huge face. 

Iron Man sprang forward, grabbed Modok's head with his arms spread wide, and tore the mutated menace off his chair. He bore his foe against the wall, slamming him into it, letting him slide down so that only his great head was supported by it, and stood with his fist poised before Modok's face. 

"Talk," said Iron Man. "And talk fast." 

"To hell with you," said Modok. "End my life, and have your questions unanswered." 

For reply, Iron Man reached down, grasped one of Modok's small hands, and sent a charge of electricity ripping through his distorted body. 

The villain screeched in pain, in an inhuman tone, the body below his head twitching and jerking like a puppet slung up and down by an inexperienced puppeteer. His head swung from side to side, in small arcs, not capable of quick movement. It wasn't enough to kill him, not enough even to knock him out. But it didn't have to be. 

Iron Man had little stomach for torture. But he guessed, correctly, that Modok had nearly no tolerance for pain. 

He shut off the current, and remained silent. Modok was crying. Iron Man lifted Modok's hand once again. 

"Stop," sobbed Modok. 

Iron Man remained silent. 

"We gave him what he wanted, what he paid for," Modok admitted. "That is what we do. We supply on demand." 

"What the hell did you supply him with?" hissed Iron Man. 

Modok told him. 

Behind his metal mask, Tony Stark's eyes went terribly wide. 

-M- 

The Heli-Carrier was crashing. Or about to crash. Whatever. 

Spider-Man was being sucked towards a hole in its wall by the outrush of air and the slipstream, and he flashed on the climactic scene of GOLDFINGER. That was all that was on his conscious mind. All that he could have told you, anyway. His peripheral vision, through the sides of his opaque eyelenses, picked up the sight of SHIELD agents screaming, trying to hold onto things, and, in two cases, being swept up right beside him. 

Where Dr. Strange and his cronies were, at this time, was moot. There was only time to act without thinking. 

His hands were pointed at the hole in the Carrier's side. Four of his fingers, the two middle ones on each hand, stabbed down twice at the activators for the web-shooters on his wrists. 

From them sprayed a double-dose of net-webbing, covering the puncture in the Heli-Carrier's side. Spider-Man kept the web coming until he had exhausted the fluid in his shooters. An instant later, he slammed into the web, felt it give before his weight, felt two more impacts as the two SHIELD agents hit it after him. 

It held. 

All three of them were stuck to the web, and would probably remain so for the next hour. But that was preferable to sailing out the hole into the Wild Blue Inevitability. 

Or was it? There was still the matter of a couple of thousand tons of Heli-Carrier trying to go downward at the rate of 44 feet per second per second. 

Nick Fury's black-clad legs were locked tightly about a support post and he was yelling something into his wristband communicator. The Hulk and Sub-Mariner were literally holding onto a bunch of terrified people and keeping them safe, for the second...the Hulk by digging his toes into the flooring as if it were mud, Namor by using his foot-wings to keep his double-armful of humanity above the floor. Dr. Strange and Clea were keeping themselves grounded by magic, and both were using those crazy two-fingered gestures and some chanting to keep the rest of the assemblage the same way. 

About that time there was a hell of a lurch, and all of them, Hulk included, slammed to the floor. 

"What?" asked Namor, without having to explain anything. 

"Vector beams," Fury snapped. "Three of 'em, in a tripod. What we use to lift the disks. I used it once before, when HYDRA bombed us. But..." 

The ship began tilting again. The beams, which emanated from the fore underside of the Carrier and described the three points of a triangle on the ground, had halted the ship's descent for a moment. But they wouldn't cope with the weight of it for long. 

The only saving grace was that the ship was over some Jersey swampland. With luck, the only casualties from the crash would be SHIELD agents and employees. Some luck. 

Dr. Strange broke off his chanting. "Clea, join your will to mine," he ordered. She didn't quibble. The magician raised both blue-sleeved arms and began an impromptu spell. 

"Crimson Bands of Cyttorak, now lend us all your strength,   
Encircle ship in which I stand along its very length,   
To hold it firm that it be whole and not yet rent asunder,   
Appeal this we in sight of all your puissance and wonder!" 

None within the ship could see it, but a miracle had occurred. 

Seven bands of pulsing red energy had encircled the Heli-Carrier from fore to aft, holding it together, keeping structural stresses and strains from tearing it apart. The pilots of the planes who flew 24-hour guard on the Carrier gaped in amazement, stammered back descriptions to their home base, and wondered what was to come next. 

The ship's aft end was teetering, about to come down and drag all the rest with it, bands or no bands. 

Everyone within the Carrier began sliding towards the aft end, giving voice to swearing, prayers, cries of pain or terror, or not giving voice at all. But Dr. Strange was not finished yet. 

"Hulk! Namor!" he shouted, still keeping his and Clea's feet stuck to the floor by virtue of his spell. "Release those you have in hand. Now!" 

"Why?" asked the Hulk. Spider-Man, looking on, still regarded the Hulk as a brutal engine of destruction. But his estimation of the green giant's humanity was being upgraded by the minute. 

"Because only you two can save the ship and all that is within it, including myself and Clea," said Strange. "I must send you to the two ends of the Carrier, and you must bear its weight and not let it crash." 

"You must do what?" asked Sub-Mariner, incredulously. 

Strange shot a glance at him, grimly. "It's the only way, Namor. You two are the only ones with the necessary strength. And, yes, you may not survive it. Are you willing?" 

Prince Namor sighed, heavily. "If I die saving surface men, Strange, let my ghost haunt you forever." 

The Hulk reluctantly let the people loose whom he had been holding. They scampered away from him, sliding towards the aft end of the room. "What is Hulk to do?" he asked, baffledly. 

"I will send you and Namor to separate ends of the ship, outside," explained Strange. "You must hold onto the ship with your hands, and, when it comes down, absorb the impact with your legs, that not many people will be hurt. It is up to you and your strength to save all the people on this Carrier, Hulk. Are you strong enough?" 

That did it. The Hulk fixed Strange with a burning gaze, then raised his Sequoia-trunk arms. "Hulk is STRONGEST ONE THERE IS!" 

"In the name of Neptune, he had better be," said Namor. "Quickly, Strange, the ship does list." 

Dr. Strange pointed his hands in two different directions, at the Hulk and at Sub-Mariner. A brief blast of white light issued from both of them. In a flash, both Defenders were gone. 

"Fer the luvva..." began Nick Fury, still holding onto the post with his legs. 

"If it helps, Colonel," said Spider-Man, still tangled in his own web, "I don't believe it, either." 

The magician looked incredibly tired, and Clea helped support him with a shoulder carry. "Until the deed is done, gentlemen, keep your unbelief to yourselves." 

-M- 

Outside, when they materialized, the Hulk barely had time to grab the bottom of the Heli-Carrier before he could fall. Once he had his hands imbedded in the metal, not even a tractor beam could drag him down. 

The jade Goliath held onto his end of the ship with both hands and felt it creaking towards his end. He looked down its length and saw seven crimson rings encircling it, semi-transparently, and three red beams emanating from the fore end of the Carrier, with Namor, visible only as a flesh-colored dot, holding onto the end beyond it. The wind whipped about the both of them, but it would take more than even the slipstream to tear them away. 

Far, far below them, a stretch of Jersey swampland was visible, and there were probably human spectators stopping their cars, pointing upward, and raising a commotion. None of that mattered at the time. 

The ship began to roll to the side. 

The tripod beams sputtered. 

The Heli-Carrier was falling again. 

On his end, the Sub-Mariner strained, using all his flight power and strength to wrest the ship into a position in which the Hulk and himself, not the side of the Carrier, would contact the ground first. He prayed aloud, shouting to Father Neptune to strengthen him in his hour of crisis. What the Hulk said, if anything, he neither could hear nor cared about. 

The ground was coming up very, very quickly... 

The air blast from the displacement of atmosphere below the Carrier hit a few seconds before and threatened even more than the slipstream to blow them both off, but they held their grips. This could not be done. It simply could not be done. 

IMPACT.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


There was no sound effect written that could describe the Heli-Carrier touching earth. 

Windows were cracked for miles around. People, cars, and objects left the ground for a mile-and-a-half radius for an instant, then plunked back down again. 

Near Ground Zero, those lucky or unlucky enough to have been near enough to a vacant swamp area picked themselves up, provided they could, and saw a Juggernaut of metal settled into a bog which it was turning to steam. 

There were echoes throughout the countryside of the great crash. There were seismographic readings that made scientists gape at their instruments. There was a hue and cry among authorities, as soon as they recovered and realized they were still alive. There was a demand to know just what had happened, and where it had taken place. 

It was hard to tell if, within the Carrier, there was silence or din. 

When human minds could record such things again, they recalled hearing groans, screaming, electrical sparkings, motors failing, people moving or trying to move, and talking. No one could remember just what was said, but the talking was enough. It proved that people were still alive. If you could hear someone, if you could make yourself be heard, that meant that you were still alive. That was, above all, a good thing. 

It was such a good thing that even when two green hands encrusted with dirt punched up through the flooring of the bottom level, followed by a very grimy Hulk, nobody much cared. They just kind of stepped around him, sometimes saying, "Excuse me," as they sought out people who were wounded and tended them, and people who were not and tried to communicate with them. The event was too big even for fear. Nobody could process what just had happened. So they dealt with what was at hand. 

The Hulk, somewhat confused, looked around, then sat down on the floor and pulled his legs up in a crouching position. Nobody seemed to be concerned with him, so he saw no need for either aggression nor flight. He hurt, particularly in the arms and legs. The part of his mind that could still reason supposed that, with only a bit more pressure, or without some other factors, even he would have been killed. But he had lived, and so none of that mattered. He would wait until he became hungry or wanted to leave or had to use the bathroom or whatever else happened. 

It was kind of comforting that nobody cared he was there. 

He was there for only a few moments when a familiar voice resounded through his brain. Hulk. Namor. This is Dr. Strange. Well done. Follow this voice, Hulk, to the place where I stand. Thank you.> 

Somehow, the Hulk knew the direction in which the magician wanted him to go. He took the direct route, and jumped up through several floors, ripping big holes in the ceilings above him. 

A host of people found presence of mind to scream and flee to other rooms, but that didn't bother him too much. He was used to it. 

-M- 

Watching from his webbing, Spider-Man could easily see how Nick Fury had been chosen to head SHIELD. Even in these circumstances, the man was taking charge. He had found which communications channels still worked, which didn't, and was barking commands to those of his men who could be reached, coordinating rescue efforts. The men of SHIELD were milling about the room, taking stock, getting things done. A head count was being made, an assessment of human and mechanical damage was being compiled, and someone was trying in vain to get in contact with the president but settling for some local authorities and hoping for a patch job to the White House. 

"Rescue efforts should be on the way," said Fury. "I want an offload of wounded and casualties out of the starboard port. Knock a hole in it if you gotta. Shut yer yap, Pomeroy, only one guy talkin' here. Find me Dugan. Repeat, find me Dugan. Send him here. And get me a report on that silver sonofabitch, right now. Repeat: get a track on the Surfer. NOW." 

Stephen Strange was tending to the injured in a most professional manner, Clea acting almost like a nurse. He was currently tending a tourniquet which kept one techno from bleeding to death through an arterial wound in his arm. Clea was completing a makeshift split on a guard's leg. Order, what there was left of it, was being restored. 

"That should suffice," said the sorcerer, easing the pressure of the binding just a tad. "The Vishanti protect you, my friend." 

"You," said the man, whose face was ashen. "Pal...you're a damn good medic." 

Strange smiled. 

A second later, four gloved fingers clamped down on his shoulder. "Over here, pal. You and me got words to say." 

Straightening up, Dr. Strange turned to face Nick Fury. "Indeed we have, Colonel. Show me where you want to speak." 

From the look on Nick's face, he was barely holding in a response that would have pierced steel and concrete. He took them both through the ruin of a door, Clea looking after them expectantly. She didn't have to eavesdrop very hard to hear what Fury had to say. 

"You, you spell-slingin' sonofabitch! I let you talk me into bringin' that silver bastard on board this ship, and he almost killed us all. He almost killed over five hundred people!" 

"Colonel, I can explain." 

"You can squat, mister! I got people wounded, in pain, all over the ship. I got people dead, most likely. Ten minutes ago, they were all healthy. Ten minutes ago, they were going to help us keep this country together. What happened between then and now? We both know, mister. Why did it happen? Because I was too stupid to keep something that already almost blew SHIELD apart off the Carrier!" 

"He was not acting of his own—" 

"I told you to SHUT UP, Strange! I told you to..." 

There was a crack. The sound of flesh hitting flesh. 

A moment of silence. 

"You hit me," said Fury, in a strange, deliberate voice. 

"I did," came Strange's voice. "Now, in the name of the Vishanti, will you be silent and let me say what I must? I scanned the Surfer's mind a moment before he broke through the hull. He was under the control of a foreign entity." 

"A what?" 

"The Surfer's mind was being controlled by another, Colonel. He was being forced to do what he did by another being." 

A beat. "Mentallo," said Fury. 

"Who?" 

"A guy with mind control powers. He almost beat SHIELD once, with his partner the Fixer. It's gotta be him." 

"I cannot say," Strange admitted. "But neither your judgment nor mine was in error, Colonel. Can you not see, man? Is it not obvious to you? Whoever has mobilized the host of super-villains, whoever has orchestrated the chaos across our land, also somehow learned that the Surfer was aboard your ship, and did this to strike down the power of SHIELD." 

Another beat. "Think you can prove this?" 

"By your standards, those of scientific measurement, no. By my standards, whereby the weights and balances of the spirit and mysticism are measured, absolutely. This was meant to defeat us, Colonel Fury. To tear us apart. Whether or not it succeeds is absolutely up to you." 

A third beat. "You damned hocus-pocus, rabbit-grabbin'-out-of-a-hat, fake Houdini woman-sawin' bastard. I'm going to have myself taken off duty once this is over, if we live through it, and check myself into Section Eight for at least a month. So help me." 

"Well, Colonel?" 

"Help me save my men, Strange. Then we go after the Surfer." 

"Absolutely." 

"We bring him down." 

"We free him from control." 

"If we can, Strange. If we can't..." 

Clea's concentration on the conversation was broken by the presence of two others entering the room, one by pushing a large section of the wall out of the way. That one was the Hulk. The other, Namor, arrived holding his right arm in a deliberate way, supported by his left. 

"We succeeded," said the Sub-Mariner, quietly. 

"Subby," said Spider-Man, trying to find a comfortable place in his web. "What happened to your arm, man?" 

"I fear it may be broken," admitted the prince. 

"Magician," rumbled the Hulk, as Clea got up and began to walk towards him. "Where is Magician?" 

In response, both Strange and Fury emerged from the office. The tension between the two of them was palpable. But Clea sensed that there was an accord between them as well. 

"I am here, Hulk," said Dr. Strange. "You were strong. You were good. You and Namor saved the lives of everyone on this vessel. Well done, my friend." 

Nick Fury stepped up to the green behemoth, paused, then stuck out his hand. "Big guy," he said, "put 'er there. You're a brother in arms." 

Whether the Hulk understood the term or not, he did know how to shake hands. Fury was grateful that all his fingers were not crushed. Then the head of SHIELD walked over to Namor as well. "Touch not the presence of the prince of Atlantis," warned Sub-Mariner. 

"The hell with that," said Fury. "You're hurt. You helped save me and my men. I'm gonna take ya to sick bay, whatever's left of it, and see about getting you taken care of." 

"I will return to Atlantis," said Namor. "I have discharged my duty here, and much beyond that." 

Fury looked away for a second, scratched the back of his head, and then turned back. "Seems to me you're forgettin' somethin'." 

Namor looked at him, curious despite himself. 

"You saw action in the Big One. Double-U Double-U Two. So did I. On the same side." 

"I but fought for my people then. Against a common enemy." 

"We all did," admitted Fury. "We was all soldiers. We still are. A soldier don't let another soldier get wounded, and not do somethin' about it. And I ain't lettin' no foreign dignitary get hurt on my ship, without seein' he gets medical attention." 

Namor looked at him grimly for a moment. Then he sighed. After that, he laughed. 

"Surface man, you know the burden of command. That, and Namor the First has gone unsound in mind from associating with your kind too long, and not fighting them. Lead me to your infirmary. I will accept this, as a brother in arms." 

The Hulk watched Fury guide Namor out of the room. "Brothers," he said. "What is this Brothers Arms?" 

Clea, before him, said, "It is what we all are, Hulk. Friends, working in a common cause. You, me, Stephen, Namor, and Colonel Fury. All of us brothers...and sister." 

The green head turned towards Spider-Man, still stuck in the dissolving web with the two SHIELD agents. "Him too?" 

"Him too," Clea confirmed. 

Spider-Man heaved an audible sigh of relief. 

-M- 

The Fantastic Four knew they were flying into a trap. The fact that they'd sprung many such traps over the course of their eleven-year history wasn't much comfort. They'd fought large masses of foes before, at Reed and Sue's wedding and when the Puppet Master and Mad Thinker had launched robot ringers of their old enemies at them. But it wouldn't be anything like this, they estimated. 

Somehow, a unit of super-villains that included three of the original Frightful Four, some of the Sinister Six, and a few independent FF enemies, had managed to get to Seattle after a recent sighting in New York. Reed didn't know how they got there so quickly, but figured that the Wizard's anti-grav ships had something to do with it. 

A few of the baddies they'd never fought before. That didn't seem to matter. What did matter, to Reed, was that he was continually putting his wife in harm's way. Sue didn't gripe about it. On the contrary, she insisted on sharing the risks of the team. But it was getting increasingly grim to Reed Richards. They had a son now, one who was at home watching the proceedings with Agatha Harkness through a video setup that came through a small camera within Reed's belt buckle. He didn't know how smart that was, either. The kid might see his parents die. 

Not for the first time, Reed wished that Crystal had been able to keep Sue's place in the team. But that just wasn't possible now. 

All they had was to face their foes, somehow defeat them, and then come home and hope they could learn the identity of the one behind the nationwide operation. Unless he missed his educated guess, they didn't have that much time for the latter. 

They were over the upper Midwest now, and it wouldn't be long before Washington was in view. All the necessary talk had been made before, so Reed remained silent, for the most part. 

"Reed," said Johnny, through his intercom mike, "got me a 'what-if' going." 

"What's on your mind, Johnny?" answered Reed through the microphone on his headset. 

"It's like, what-if we didn't even go to Seattle? We both know it's a distraction. Whoever's behind all this wanted to divide us from the Avengers, and he did. So we're walkin' straight into whatever he's got planned for us. And that might be a lot worse than that buncha walking wanted posters we already know about." 

"I'd agree with you on everything so far," admitted Reed, eyeing the map-scan on his instrument panel. "Unfortunately, there's not a lot we can do about it. The Masters of Evil is a larger unit than the Frightful Four and company. We both decided that all the Avengers would have to deal with them, both from their power and experience factors. If either one of us finishes our battles first, we help the other. But..." 

"But we're still walkin' into a trap, and I knew better'n that when I was a kid on Yancy Street territory," rumbled the Thing. "And you know, Stretcho, whatever happens to the rest o' the country's probably gonna happen while we're out waltzin' with our old sparrin' partners." 

"Ben has a valid point, dear," said Susan. "Maybe if we held back, helped the Avengers as their ace in the hole, it might work to our advantage. Then they could help us out in Seattle." 

Reed sighed. "I went over that very point with Thor, Hank Pym, and Hawkeye. Even with the Vision. We have to assume the two villain groups are in contact with each other, either directly or through the man running this op. If both of us double-teamed one target, that'd probably be a signal for the other group to go on an even bigger rampage. Maybe involving the death of innocent people." 

"Our bad guys don't go in for murder," answered Ben Grimm. 

"There's always a first time," said Reed, grimly. "I also feel that this might well be the last time." 

After a pause, the Torch said, "Well, what about reinforcements for us? The Avengers aren't the only game in town." 

"I've already sent messages to Daredevil and the Inhumans in San Francisco and the X-Men in Dallas. They've indicated that they're busy with mop-up, but they'll help when and if they can get free. This war is wearing them down, too." 

"Nice to know," groused the Thing. 

"So...we engage the enemy, we find a way to win, and then we come back and try to solve this mystery," said Reed. "And then..." 

Sue Richards broke the pause. "And then what, Reed?" 

"And then, if we make it, we're going to have to sit down and consider what we're going to do with the Fantastic Four." 

"Whaddya mean, Stretcho?" asked the Thing, leaning forward in his seat. "You ain't talkin' about ditchin' the team, are ya?" 

Reed took a deep breath. "Not that, Ben. But we've paid our dues as fighters for justice. There are a lot of heroes out there, maybe more to take their place when they leave. Sue and I have a son now, and he deserves to have a mother and father who aren't risking their lives every month. Johnny needs to go back to college. If it wasn't for the FF, he'd already have graduated. If we make it through...no, when we make it through...it'll be time to think about other things. At least, from my point of view." 

"Ya can't mean that!" 

"Ben," said Reed Richards deliberately, "I've never meant anything more in my life. But if this is the Fantastic Four's last hurrah, one way or another...let's make sure they remember it forever. And that we remember it forever. Are you with me?" 

"You don't even have to ask, brother-in-law," said Johnny Storm. But he didn't say it lightly. 

Ben leaned both arms on the headboard of his Fantasticar unit. "You know I'm in it to the end, Reed. I just didn't think I'd hear about it like this. Wottheheck, let's knock a few bad guys all the way to Jebru when we land this thing. Just for the old times." 

Sue simply said, "I'm in, too, Reed," and that was that. 

There was little more to say on the way to Seattle. 

-M- 

The Silver Surfer was making war against the East Coast, and he was winning. 

That he had no control of his actions made little difference to the people below him. All they knew is that a silver figure flashed across the sky on a surfboard, bolts of power erupted from his hands, and buildings, cars, and other objects began blowing up, liquefying, or burning. Thankfully, either no or very few people seemed to be caught in the conflagration. It didn't stop them from running like hell. 

The voice within his head kept urging him to destruction. Another voice, deeper down, restrained him so that there was no loss of life. For the moment, the two balanced each other out. The Surfer kept sending bolts of the Power Cosmic to devastate things he encountered on a trip down the Eastern Seaboard, and he was making exceptionally good time. 

The government called on the Air Force to deploy the Sonic Shark. This was a missile with destructive energy properties that had almost destroyed the Surfer before, until the Fantastic Four saved him. The Air Force obliged. The missile took wing, and it homed in on the Surfer. 

This time the Surfer was ready for it. 

Before it could get within deadly range, he targeted it with a bolt, stripped it into its component parts, isolated and destroyed the element dangerous to himself, disintegrated that, reassembled the missile, and sent it back at the ones who had deployed it. 

They had enough warning to get off the base before the thing impacted, exploding and destroying the entire installation. 

The military didn't have time to worry about egg on their faces. This was serious business, to say the least. 

Somebody called President Nixon to give him the news almost as soon as the dust cleared. 

The president tried to contact the super-heroes of America, only to find that everybody was out battling somebody or other. The Surfer was top priority. They had to be put on his trail. 

If they were having trouble with super-villains, the government would just have to lend them a hand. 

After that, they could get back on the job. 

Everybody should be satisfied with that. 

-M- 

In a corresponding structure in Moscow, Leonid Breshnev was going over things with the military, the Politburo, and several other of his flunkies. 

He informed them that President Nixon had already sent a warning to him personally to stay out of matters in America concerning the Crisis, and Breshnev had assured the president that his country had nothing to do with them. That despite the fact that some of their own heroes, damn it all, had defected in the face of capitalist profiteering. If the Titanium Man came back, they'd melt his armor down for use in the space program, with him in it. 

Several of the group, including the militarists, suggested that it might now be possible to make aggressive moves in certain parts of the world. They might even give Fidel back his bombs. After all, it wasn't like the U.S. had time to watch that closely, was it? Maybe they could even... 

The premier slammed his fist down on the table. No, he said. Such thinking is base adventurism. If America falls apart, and is unable to command a unilateral nuclear attack, things will obviously be different. But at this point, they have not lost their chain of command. It is only be strained, very hard. Within a few days, the true situation should become clear. Perhaps even by tomorrow. For now...the USSR will stand and wait. 

So, after some attention to lesser matters, the members of the Politburo went home to wait. 

Secretly, they didn't think they'd have to wait that long. 

-M- 

In Peiping, after some consultation by phone with both the president and the premier, Mao Tse-Tung advised much the same course as Breshnev. The ruling council took his advice. 

In Viet Nam, the Communist forces went on greater offensive, taking advantage of the chaotic conditions in America and of reduced Allied troop strength due to Vietnamization. It was a replay of the Tet offensive, in stereo. South Vietnamese, American, and Australian troops fought back and tried to hold their ground with varying results. Life was lost on both sides. That was nothing unusual. 

Europe, pretty much bereft of super-heroes, watched and waited. Branch offices of SHIELD around the globe got communiques from the American branch almost by the minute. They were placed on high alert, but so far just told to stand by. 

Canada and Mexico looked nervously at their neighbor. Central and South America, to a lesser degree, did the same. 

The Middle East was busy with conflicts of its own, though the news programs often carried pictures of the conflict. Even there, people watched when super-heroes were on the tube. 

Australia, Japan, Africa, India, and all other points had their separate reactions. From the scope of the conflict, everyone knew that things were going to be reordered once the fighting was over. What affected America would affect them, one way or the other. 

Assuming, of course, after this there still would be an America. 

That was an assumption some were beginning, tentatively, to question. 

-M- 

"Cap didn't give you a hint of where he was going, Hank?" 

"None." 

Hawkeye slapped the instrument panel with the hand he wasn't using to guide the Quinjet. "Blast it. We've lost him, we've lost Shellhead, and we're on the way to the fight of our lives." 

"Isn't that always the way of it, Clint?" asked Jan Van Dyne, sitting next to her husband. "We have to go out there, no matter what our member strength, and do what we have to. I remember when it was just you, me, and Hank here for a time." 

"Yeah," agreed Hawkeye, grimly, as their ship soared through the airspace of the Midwest. "That was until we got T'Challa here, and then the Vision." The Black Panther sat a few seats behind them, listening but keeping his peace. "We got back up to strength, but it blamed well took us a while. And here we are, about to mix it up with everybody this side of Pruneface and B. B. Eyes." 

"We've fought them before, many times, and beaten them every time," the Scarlet Witch reminded him, holding hands in the back with the Vision. "We recently finished fighting the Krees and Skrulls, and then the Olympians. What in heaven's name makes you so uptight this time, Clint?" 

The archer sighed. "It's just...I'm afraid for Cap. Want to hear a revelation?" 

"One would imagine that you want us to, given your tone and inflection," said the Vision, in his sepulchral voice. "Speak, Clint." 

"All right. I barely knew my dad...he cut out of the family when I was a kid. You've heard the story before. Me and my brother, we ran off, joined the circus, and that's where I learned the bowman bit. From that time to this, I never had a father. But the closest one I ever had to that was Cap. And if anybody tells him that, I'll paste him one." 

"What if I tell him?" asked the Wasp, wickedly. 

"Then I'll paste you to the wall with a glue arrow." 

"Hawkeye," said the Witch, "I served with you in the second Avengers grouping. I remember how you acted towards Cap from day one. Sarcastic, mocking, disrespectful. Did you see him as a father then?" 

"Yeah," said Hawkeye. "I must not have liked him as a dad back then. But maybe it was what I needed. When you and Jan came back, Hank, the chemistry changed. Then came the day we went up against Natasha and her two bozoes, and I let 'em go. I told Winghead to give me the third degree. He wouldn't do it. He just told me he knew I was human, and let it go. I felt like...well...you can imagine." 

"I suppose I can," said T'Challa. "I remember my father, T'Chaka, well. He was taken from me, all too early, by Klaw. So I, too, can sympathize, my friend." 

"Your dad wasn't anything like my dad," replied Hawkeye. 

Ant-Man waved the rest to silence. "You know something, Clint?" 

Hawkeye shot a look back. "What?" 

"I think Cap was a father to you in more ways than you think. Because I don't think you grew up until he left you alone." 

The man in the purple mask stiffened at his control. "You got about thirty seconds to start makin' sense. I'm drivin', remember?" 

"So put it on automatic," said Henry Pym. "Maybe I noticed it because, for a long time, it was you, me, and Jan holding down the fort, with help from T'Challa and Vizh later on. But I saw you when Cap was there, before he did that temporary quitting thing when he thought he was retiring. I don't know what you were like when it was just you, Cap, Wanda, and Pietro—" 

"Dreadful," said Wanda, with a snicker. 

"—But I do know how it was when Jan and I came back. You were a smart-mouth, at first. Then you started trying to grow up, it looked like, after the incident you just talked about. But you still didn't like following Cap's orders. Kind of like it was Dad telling you what to do, right?" 

Hawkeye sighed. "Keep going. Maybe you'll say something I like." 

"Hear me out. So, when Wanda and Pietro left—and that's water under the bridge now, Wanda, don't worry—it was just the three of us. You had to really help us run the show. And you know what? You were very, very good at it." 

"Awww, shucks." 

The Wasp said, "Clint, ease up. The big boy's trying to give you a compliment, okay?" 

"He knows, Jan," said Hank. "It's just it embarrasses him to admit he knows. You helped us time and again, even before that...the Sons of the Serpent, the Red Guardian, all of them. But it wasn't until Cap wasn't there to hold your towel for you that you really managed to grow up." 

"How do you know?" 

"How was it that you took the initiative to start a new career as Goliath, when Natasha needed you?" 

Hawkeye was silent. 

"The old Hawkeye never would have been that much of a start-up guy. Sure, dependable in a fight, but not as imaginative as that. Then the two of us left, and you practically ended up running the team for awhile. As Goliath. Remember that?" 

"Hey," said Clint, quietly. "Somebody had to do it." 

The Vision spoke up. "And you did it, Clint Barton. You did it very well." 

"Nobody named me chairman!" 

"Nobody had to, Clint," said Wanda. "We all trusted you. You weren't the brainiest one in the bunch. But whether you knew it or not...you could lead." 

There was silence for a number of seconds. 

"And you know what, Clint?" said Ant-Man. "Sure, we're all capable of acting on our own. We wouldn't have been independent operators, those of us who were, otherwise. But with Captain America gone...I think it's going to be you again." 

"I can't!" 

"You can't what, Clint?" said Janet Van Dyne. "You can't help us fight the enemy? You can't help us save the John Q's from the bad guys, like you've been doing all along?" 

The Black Panther spoke up. "I think he can, Janet. As a king, I've been trained to recognize many qualities in the men I have to deal with, and in myself, when need be. I can recognize things in you, Clint, that I have never spoken of. But one of those things, my good friend...is leadership." 

Again, silence. 

"So, what now?" said Hawkeye, almost hoarsely. "What difference is that supposed to make?" 

"None," said Wanda. "We know what to do, and so do you. We just wanted you to know, Clint. And something else. We're very, very proud of you." 

"Clint," said Hank Pym. "You, kind of, want me to take the controls or something?" 

"I'll be all right, Pym," said Hawkeye, huskily. "Just stay in your seat, okay? Do somethin' like write the script for The Incredible Shrinking Man Returns. We've...got a job to do." 

Jan smiled. "We know it, Clint. And now...so do you." 

-M- 

Nobody dared tell the Kingpin that he and his men had gone to ground. But there they were, in an underground complex that had been started back in the Cold War for sheltering secondary government officials, abandoned during the Kennedy Administration as a sign of good faith with the Russians, and forgotten. Except by the Kingpin, who quietly bought it, finished it, and held it for times such as these. 

He had gone there with his wife, his son, his factotum, and six men who oversaw his operations. There was simply no telling which way this crisis would end, and until it did, the best thing for them was to wait it out. Luckily, the sub-street haven had been furnished with the best touches (and some of the worst) of the crimelord's penthouse lair. Melissa and Richard Fisk were in the areas designated as the Kingpin's apartment now, which was the way he wanted it. He himself was in his business office, with Loomis, his major-domo. Right now, there was little else to do but go over last month's business records and try to make contingency plans for what scenarios might arise. 

After all, no matter what society arose in this one's place, it would need crime. 

That was what was going on when Seward walked into the room, in a state of agitation. "Kingpin," he said, "you started this." 

The great bald head looked up from the ledger on the desk before him. "Explain yourself," he said, calmly. Loomis was already moving to close the door. 

"Stay where you are," said Seward, standing between Loomis and the door. "Kingpin. You sold those freaks weapons. You sold them information. You told them where to find some of the long-underwear guys." 

"And?" The master of New York's underworld contemplated his lieutenant without emotion. 

"And now this! The whole country's goin' to hell from those hippies and spades riotin', and the Long Johnnies fightin' it out. This is my country, Kingpin. I served!" 

"I am quite well aware of your service record, Mr. Seward," stated the Kingpin. "And of how you had to be sprung from a military prison." 

"This is bigger'n that," said Seward. "I got family on the outside, Kingpin. I'm gonna go find 'em." 

"That would not be advisable, Mr. Seward." 

Loomis, looking on, strove to keep his poker-playing face intact. He knew what was coming. Seward, on some level, probably knew it, too. 

"I'm going," said Seward, bolting for the door. "I'm singin'!" 

Loomis had never seen a desk overturned with such rapidity. He doubted he himself could even lift the thing off the ground for very long, given its weight and contents. The Kingpin swept it away within a second. It landed upside-down on the floor and Loomis had to move to keep his feet from being crushed. 

The Kingpin already had his hands on Seward's head and body. 

He turned them in different directions. 

After the snap was heard, the Kingpin opened his huge hands and let the body fall to the carpet. The look on Seward's lifeless face was one of the most horrific Loomis had ever seen on a stiff, and he'd seen plenty of them. Not breathing hard, the Kingpin smoothed his white coat. "Loomis," he said. "Deal with Mr. Seward. And come back in here with a rug cleaner, please." 

"Yes, sir," said Loomis, automatically, and hauled Seward out the door by the feet. 

When he was gone, the Kingpin lifted the desk, placed it back in its customary position, picked up the objects which had fallen from it and rearranged them on its top. He took his chair from the floor, righted it, and sat down again. The loss of Seward was not troubling to him. The current situation was. 

He had never wanted to conquer America, like some two-for-a-penny costumed villain with more powers than brains. All he wanted to do was profit from it, like any other good businessman. Now, he feared he had overreached himself. True, he'd just been trying to turn a profit. 

But now he might see all his profits go up in the Fire. 

To be continued...   



	24. Part 24:  Cathedral Perilous

FIRE! 

Part 24 

by DarkMark 

Professor Charles Xavier knew he had company only a short time before he could see him. Not for the first time, he marveled at the man's ability to control his own thoughts. 

The door swung open without being touched, and that with all the anti-magnetic elements which had been installed. Standing beyond it, on the porch, was a familiar figure. 

"May I come in?" he said. 

Xavier looked calmly on his visitor. "I don't think I could stop you if I wanted to, Erik. Welcome." 

His cape rustling, Magneto stepped across the threshold of the mansion at Greymalkin Lane. 

For a long few moments, he simply stood there. Xavier thought that he looked tired. "Have a seat," he said, gesturing to a couch in the receiving room. 

The helmeted man shook his head, wearily. "No, thank you, Charles. I don't think I'll be here that long." 

Professor X tensed. "It's come to that, then?" 

Magneto spread his hands. "Did you think it could come to anything else, Charles?" 

"Actually, yes. Through all the battles, all the conflicts, even the one in which I felt the impact of your bomb, Erik, I never stopped hoping. I knew who you were, Erik. That's why I hoped." 

"Then why did you oppose me?" 

"Because I knew who you were." 

Magneto waited. Then he said, "Why did you leave no one to guard you, Charles?" 

"Call me an old romantic. I had hoped to reason with you one more time. At least, to have a conversation." 

The lord of evil mutants turned his back to Xavier and leaned against the wall. 

"Our age is over, Charles. There is no more left for me. Leiber Gott, do you remember how I was only a few years ago? So much...so much energy..." He turned, his eyes almost pleading, looking at Xavier. 

"I know, Erik. Believe me, I know." Xavier tried to look with kindness on the man he knew probably better than any other man in his life. "But it still is not too late. One age ends. Another beckons. The old must be there to help the new. Wouldn't you agree?" 

"No," said Magneto. "I'm sorry, but...no. Sometimes, the old are just obstructions. Things that have to be shunted aside, or destroyed. This is..." He looked around the room. "This is all we have left." 

"It still isn't too late, Erik." 

The red-and-purple-clad man almost leaped upon the man in the wheelchair. "Dammit! It was too late ten years ago, Charles. It was too late thirty years ago. It is much too late today. You know that as well as I." 

"Together, Erik, we could accomplish so much." 

"Together, Charles, we should have accomplished much. But instead...all we ever did was fight." He lifted a table by its metallic legs, made as if to smash it through the front window, then stopped and levitated it back to the floor. 

"All we ever did was fight," he said. 

Xavier had already launched his psychic bolt as he felt the flux of magnetism surrounding him. In times past, he had always proven faster than Erik, if only by a hair. 

He didn't know whether he should pray for the same speed now, or not. 

-M- 

The Fantasticar was not far away from their target site, in Seattle. The Frightful Four unit had taken over Ft. Lewis, a USAF base not far from Tacoma. There were enough hostages there, particularly military men and women, and enough war-making machinery and security risks for it to be worth the villains' while. Provided that was what they were really after. 

Reed Richards doubted it. There were other places less well-defended in Seattle proper, areas where the number of hostages to be had would dwarf those at the Air Force base. No, this place had been chosen as a battleground. Probably intended as the FF's last. 

"Ben, Johnny, Sue," said Reed, through the headphones that kept them in clear touch throughout the flight. "This time they won't be holding back. I doubt they'll be in hit-and-run mode, as they were last time. We're going to be outnumbered. We're going to be outgunned. The only thing we can say for ourselves is...we won't be outfought." 

"Amen, Stretcho," said the Thing, as softly as he could. 

"We'll have a few things up our sleeve as well," Reed went on. "Despite it all, I think we're going to come out on top in this one. If we don't...you already know the rest. You're the best of friends, the best of teammates. The best family I think a man's ever had. 

"That's all. Are you ready?" 

"Bring 'em on!" shouted Ben Grimm. 

"You hadda ask, brother-in-law?", chimed in the Torch. 

"You know where I stand, darling," murmured Sue Richards. 

Grimly, Reed Richards smiled. "That's all. We'll be landing within five minutes. That is, if we get that close." 

He set the monitor control to survey the scene at the base. A small screen popped up on the control surface of his Fantasticar module. An amazingly clear picture of the scene in question came up on it. The picture was being transmitted from a communications satellite Reed himself had engineered and put in orbit with the government's consent, one which was far in advance of the ones even the U.S. had employed. 

It was easy to see who was in the open, on the field in which a few planes were displayed. The Sandman, the Trapster (Reed couldn't refrain from thinking of him as "Paste-Pot Pete"), the Gladiator, the Wizard, Dr. Octopus, Electro. A melange of the Frightful Four, the Sinister Six, and the Emissaries of Evil. Stupid names, but the men who bore them still had the power to destroy a city. Some of them had brains enough to conquer a nation. 

That was something Reed vowed never to allow happen. 

They were surrounding a group of airmen and office workers on a field, their captives sitting down, unarmed, and menaced by nothing more nor less than their captors' powers. 

"There have to be more of them," said Reed. "Expect it. All right, team...attack!" 

The Fantasticar split into four separate modules. The Thing, the Invisible Girl, the Human Torch, and Mr. Fantastic zeroed in on their enemies from four separate directions. 

From nearby buildings, there erupted a larger squad of villains. Kraven, two Vultures, the Shocker, the Eel, Mysterio, the Red Ghost, Diablo, the Beetle, the Wizard, the Plantman, the Hate-Monger, the Terrible Trio, and even an old warhorse the Torch had fought only a single time, the Asbestos Man. With all that, Johnny Storm was surprised he didn't see the Painter of 1,000 Perils, but he supposed the Wizard had some standards, after all. 

The Thing's voice came over the Torch's heat-resistant headset. "Well, here's the reinforcements. Tell 'er, Torchy!" 

The Torch flipped a switch on his headset, reaching another frequency. "Phase in now," he said. 

The very air around the villains and hostages on the ground shimmered in one direction. The Wizard pointed that way, and the Sandman shot off sandblasts from one hand with machine-gun rapidity towards it. Whatever was beyond the portal spattered the blasting granules with an unseen shield. 

Then several costumed figures streamed forth from the hole in the air: Black Bolt, Medusa, Karnak, Gorgon, Triton, Crystal (wearing a breathing mask over her mouth and nose to protect her from the air's impurities), the titanic dog Lockjaw in the midst of them, and, bringing up the rear, Daredevil and the Black Widow. 

"Greetings from San Francisco, guys," shouted DD, vaulting into the fray. 

"Hornhead," muttered the Gladiator, starting his hand-blades whirling. "Back off, boys, the guy in red is mine." 

The battle began. 

-M- 

In the Savage Land, Ka-Zar stood over the fallen form of his brother, the Plunderer. The costumed villain had made another foray against the jungle man and his great cat with the aid of Maa-Gor, the savage caveman. But the Neanderthal had finally perished by the great sabre-toothed fangs of Zabu, and Ka-Zar had defeated the costumed Plunderer, even though the latter wielded a Vibranium-powered weapon mightier than any he'd possessed before, plus an alliance with Magneto's mutants, Siryn, Brainchild, Amphibius, Gaza, and the rest. 

The lord of the Antarctic jungle grasped his brother Parnival by the shirt front and hauled him up, dragging him to a face-to-face position. "Why have you attacked me here, brother? Why now?" 

The Plunderer spit in his brother's face. Ka-Zar hit him again, not gently. 

While his brother groveled on the rocky soil, Ka-Zar spoke softly. "You will tell me. Speak." 

"It was...maybe...the last time," rasped the Plunderer. 

"The last time for what?" Ka-Zar's blue eyes flashed with curiosity. 

"The last...time...I could get to you," the villain replied. "Things...are changing in the outer world. I could barely get...the backing to come for you." 

"From who?" 

"The man who...backs us all," said the Plunderer, rising to his knees. 

Ka-Zar stepped closer. "Tell me," he demanded. Nearby, Zabu growled meaningfully. 

The Plunderer looked at his brother Kevin, then muttered his reply. 

"The master of the Fire," he said. 

-M- 

The President of the United States had patched through a call to Nick Fury at SHIELD as soon as a workable mobile unit on the fallen Heli-Carrier could be found. FEMA was already on the scene, helping with the injured, tallying the damages and the dead, taking statements, and, luckily, not coming upon the Defenders and Spider-Man, who were sequestered in a walled-off portion of the ship. Dum Dum and Val were with Fury, and the situation was tense. 

"Uh, Colonel Fury, can you, uh, give me a report? In brief, and in overview?" 

"Yes, sir, Mr. President," said Fury, his cigar still smoking in the ashtray on his desk. "The responsibility is mine. I took on board a group of super-people, some of 'em outlaws. I thought they could be of help to us, and they were. But one of 'em went berserk." 

"The, uh, Silver Surfer," said Nixon. 

"That's him," Fury said. "Somethin' came over him while he was on deck and he just punched a hole through the outer hull. It capsized us." 

"You took the Silver Surfer aboard the Heli-Carrier?" 

"Yes, sir. I was led to believe he would not be a threat. One of the others, who has some kinda experience in this line, says the Surfer was under mind control from somebody else." 

"Under mind control." 

"Yes, sir." 

"From somebody else." 

"Yes, sir, that's what he indicated." 

"Who?" 

"Sir?" 

"Who was controlling the Surfer?" 

"We don't know yet, sir." 

"Who was your consultant on that matter, Colonel?" 

"He calls himself Doctor Strange, sir." 

"Doctor What Strange?" 

"Well, I don't know his first name, sir, although I think it might be Stephen. That's what I think his girlfriend called him, sir." 

"What is he a doctor of?" 

"I think he's a magician, sir." 

Silence. 

"He used some kinda power to help us keep the Heli-Carrier together, sir. And two of his men helped catch it when it went down." 

"Catch it?" 

"Uh, yes, sir. They caught the Heli-Carrier when it fell, sir." 

"They caught it?" 

"Yes, sir. One of them broke his arm, sir. Doing it." 

"Who were these two, Colonel?" 

"The Hulk, sir. And the Sub-Mariner. The Sub-Mariner's the one got his arm broke, sir." 

"You let the Hulk aboard the Heli-Carrier, Colonel?" 

"Uh, yes, sir. I was led to believe—" 

"The Hulk?" 

"Yes, sir, and he was well-behaved, sir. He hasn't gotten out of hand during the whole incident, sir. Nor has the Sub-Mariner." 

"Colonel. Where is the Hulk now?" 

"Uh. He's still aboard the Carrier, sir." 

"And the Sub-Mariner?" 

"He's here, too, sir. I think he's still in Sick Bay, but he may be somewhere else now." 

On the other end, Nixon sighed. "Colonel Fury. You're relieved of your position as director of SHIELD, effective immediately. You will report to Commander Roberts of FEMA and tell him to get you to Washington as soon as possible for a debriefing. Is that clear, Colonel?" 

More silence. 

"Colonel Fury." 

"Yes, sir. It is clear, sir." 

Beside him, Val drew in a deep breath and clutched Nick's hand. 

"In the interim, Agent Dugan will take over your duties until a new director can be appointed. Put me through to Dugan, Colonel." 

Dum Dum looked at Nick, incredulous. He waved his hands, indicating he wanted no part of it. Silently, he begged Nick Fury to stay in command. 

But Nick Fury stood, gave Dugan a look, beckoned him to the seat of command, and began to walk away. Val went with him, grasping his hand. 

Dugan took the telephone in hand, staring after his old topkick, his mouth open and trying in vain to form words. A choked noise came from his throat. 

He heard the president's voice calling his name. 

After a long moment, he said, "Agent Dugan. Sir." 

-M- 

Outside, Val said to Nick, "I'm going with you." 

"You better not," said Fury. "They'll have me in a federal pen for holding by sundown." 

"I don't give a damn. I'm going with you, even if they have to stick me in the same cell." 

Nick turned to her. "Val. I'm going to need somebody to keep track of things here." 

"You've got Dugan." 

"I need you." 

"And that's why I'm coming with you." 

"I'm giving you an order, Contessa." 

She looked him in the eye. "Aren't you forgetting something? You've been relieved of command." 

Fury looked at her, started to say something in anger, then softened. He looked at the cracks in the walls before him, the stress fractures, the bends and warping, and knew he was very, very lucky that this was the only damage visible in this part of the hall. 

"Come on, then," he said. "It's gonna be a long ride, Val." 

"I expect so, Nick." 

"I'm...kinda glad you're with me." 

"I'm kinda glad I am, too, Nick." 

The two walked down the hall, hand in hand. On the way, agents saluted Fury. He saluted back. He didn't say a word. 

-M- 

Jasper Sitwell was walking with the aid of a crutch. He'd taken a nasty fracture when he was thrown against a wall in the Carrier's descent. He counted himself lucky. 

As he went through the double-hatched doors to the suite where their guests were hidden, he stopped stock-still in the doorway. The sight of the Hulk and Sub-Mariner would cause a man to do that, even if Spider-Man, the man in the red cape, and the white-haired woman were a bit more manageable. 

"Uh, gentlemen," said Sitwell. "And lady. I have regrettable news to report." 

"More regrettable than what we have borne?" asked the Sub-Mariner, acidly. 

"Peace, Namor," said Clea. "You are?" 

"My name is Jasper Sitwell. I am an agent of SHIELD, assistant to Colonel Fury, and..." He sighed. "I must inform you that...Colonel Fury has been relieved of duty." 

"What?" Spider-Man stood upright in a flash. "What're you talking about, Joe College?" 

Dr. Strange silenced him with a gesture. Thankfully, the Hulk was keeping still. "Agent Sitwell," said Strange, "tell me what has happened." 

Sitwell related, briefly, the events of the last thirty minutes. "The President has advised me that those of you whom he mentioned are to be held here until they can, ah, decide what course of action to take." 

Namor stood and grasped Sitwell by the lapel, hauling him off the floor with one hand. "Listen, little man. We shall decide what course to be taken, ourselves! Namor the First answers to no surface man, no, not even your President. And the word of Namor is the word of Atlantis supreme!" 

The Hulk stood up. "No one tells Hulk where to go! Hulk SMASH!" 

"No, Hulk!" Clea put her hands against his chest. "The man is an ally. He is a friend of the Eye-Patched one. It is not a good thing to smash him." 

"Friend of Eye-Patch?" 

Clea nodded. 

"Oh, yes," said Sitwell. "A very, very, very good friend, uh, Mr. Hulk, sir. Mr., that is, Prince Namor, I assure you that you are a guest, not a prisoner. That is how, uh, Colonel Fury and Agent Dugan wish it to be." 

The Hulk subsided, but his eye glowed balefully. "Girl better be right," he declared. 

Disgustedly, the Sub-Mariner put Sitwell down and turned away. "Strange," he said, "I shall return home." 

"No, Namor," said Dr. Strange, stepping towards his ally. "We need you." 

"Atlantis needs me more." 

Strange said, "But, if things...get out of hand..." He nodded, gently, towards the Hulk. 

"Then it shall be your problem, and I wish you well. Now stand aside." 

"Subby," said Spider-Man. "They're gonna need you. I have to go home." 

"What?" Sub-Mariner, Clea, Dr. Strange, and Sitwell turned towards the web-spinner almost in unison. 

"I've got to go," repeated Spider-Man. "I've got a family waiting for me. They'll be worried sick about me by now. That's all I can tell you. I'm as patriotic as the next guy, but there ain't a lot more I can do here, right now. That's it. I've gotta go."   
Strange said, "But, Spider-Man, the president knows that you've been part of this episode. You'll be hunted down for questioning." 

Sitwell cleared his throat. "Not exactly, Doctor." 

The sorcerer looked at the spy. "What do you mean by that?" 

"Colonel Fury didn't mention Spider-Man in his report. No order's been given about him, specifically. So, if he wishes to leave before such orders are given..." 

Dr. Strange turned towards Spider-Man, and the younger hero thought his friend looked tired. "Are you certain that this course is what you wish, Spider-Man?" 

"I'm certain it's what I've gotta do, Doc," Spidey replied. "If you'll step aside, I think I can try and find a way home." 

"It would take you days," said Clea. 

"There is an easier way," said Strange. With that, he forked the fingers of both hands and pointed them at Spider-Man. Then he began to chant: 

"By Faltine's flames of fury,   
And the twelve-mooned Raggador,   
Let my ally be transported   
Towards a more familiar shore!" 

Orange beams of energy spurted from his hands. Jasper Sitwell gasped in awe and shrank back against the wall. This, truly, was a power beyond anything SHIELD had mastered. 

The beams struck Spider-Man. Within a second, he was there no more. 

"Great heavens," breathed Sitwell. 

"Web-man gone," observed the Hulk. 

Dr. Strange turned towards Namor. "If I can change the mind of the president towards us, and towards Fury, will you stay?" 

The Sub-Mariner regarded his ally. "I would consider it." 

"Then give me a moment," said the magician. With that, he sank to a cross-legged lotus position on the floor, closed his eyes, turned his head upward, and fell motionless. None but Clea saw what really happened next. 

The spirit of Stephen Strange rose from his body, penetrated the ceiling, and was lost to even her sight. 

Sitwell found his voice again. "Is he, uh, is he meditating?" 

With a slight smile, Clea turned towards Sitwell. "He is travelling." 

-M- 

The place to which Dr. Strange's ectoplasmic form was travelling was in Washington, D.C. Thankfully, the president was in the Oval Office at the time. The way things were going, Strange half expected him to be in a secret bunker somewhere, waiting for the signal to press the button. 

Mind-entry was not a thing he liked to do very often. It was a violation of another man's most personal space. Like it or not, it revealed a great deal of a person's secrets to the magician who did it. But times were desperate on his front as well as the president's, and thus, such means might be necessitated. 

At least, that was what Strange told himself as he entered the president's mind. 

At his desk, Richard Nixon broke off a conversation with H. R. Haldeman and stared, glassy-eyed, at his crewcut aide. "Sir?" asked Haldeman. 

Nixon said nothing. 

Good afternoon, Mr. President,> said a voice in the chief executive's mind. This is Dr. Strange.> 

Who...> 

I mean you no harm, Mr. President. I am a learned and practiced magician, the leader of the Defenders super-hero group, and an ally of Col. Nicholas Fury. You have released him from his job, but I have come to ask that you rescind your order.> 

"Mr. President? Mr. President, what's happening?" Haldeman leaned as close as he dared to his boss. 

"Shut up, Haldeman," said Nixon, gruffly. "I'm...I don't know what I'm doing." 

Mentally, Nixon said, What in the [expletive deleted] are you doing in my head? Is this some Russian psychic trick?> 

No trick, Mr. President,> said Stephen Strange. I regret the need to enter your mind-space. But there is no other way to convince you, in the time allotted to me, of the necessity of my case.> 

"I don't know who you are," the president said aloud. "But Colonel Fury is not going back to that job." 

"Sir? What's that about Colonel Fury?" 

"Keep quiet, Haldeman," ordered Nixon. Uh. Am I doing this right?> 

Perfectly fine, sir. But Fury is the only one with knowledge and dedication enough to stave off the threat at present. With respect to the one known as Dugan, we can only deal with the Colonel.> 

Over two dozen people are dead now, because of your dealing with the Colonel.> 

Regrettably, yes. But dozens more, hundreds more, will perish if he is not in the seat of command. Mr. President, he must be returned to power.> 

I have given my order. Now get out of my head!> 

....> 

Are you still here?> 

...Mr. President, what is this about your meeting with persons in crimson hoods?> 

WHAT??> 

I'm sorry. I couldn't help noticing it. It's uppermost in your memories today, I fear.> 

WHAT??? Are you from the Washington Post, dammit?> 

No. But it would be most interesting if they were to learn of this, would it not?> 

I warn you, whoever you are, I'll have you're a...your...I'll have you in a sling if you spread a word of this to anyone! To ANYONE! I'll have you and your...whatevers...in a federal penitentiary within 24 hours!> 

By all means, Mr. President, do so. Let us see how long you can keep the Hulk in jail.> 

The Hulk?> 

Yes, Mr. President. The Hulk.> 

Are you the Hulk?> 

No, Mr. President. He is an associate of mine.> 

Then you're aiding and abetting a known felon, by Joe! I'll have you both up on charges!> 

As you wish, Mr. President. Just leave me enough time to contact...the Washington Post, you said?> 

NO!> 

Well, Mr. President?> 

...Damn you.> 

What of Colonel Fury?> 

Richard Nixon shook his head. Haldeman was calling for Secret Service men and arranging transport to Bethesda. The president lifted his hand. "That, uh, that won't be necessary." 

"Mr. President, you're ill," said Haldeman, and added, "obviously." 

"Haldeman. I want Fury back on the job. I'm rescinding my order." 

"Sir?" 

"I want Fury back, pronto. Get hold of him, wherever he is, and tell him he's hired. Again." 

"Mr. President, I..." 

"NOW, Haldeman!" 

Spiritually, Dr. Strange smiled and disengaged from the president's mind. He began the long but swift journey back to his body. Actually, he'd seen a lot more than just the men with the hoods in Nixon's memories. Some things he didn't understand, some things he wasn't sure that he wanted to. 

That business with the break-in to Democratic headquarters. Who would be stupid enough to authorize that? 

And the tape that had to be erased about seventeen times. Wasn't that overdoing things? 

Oh, well. There were more important things at hand. 

-M- 

The Masters of Evil had taken over the main airport in Atlanta, which made no sense whatever. At least, not obviously. As in all the other incidents, the villains just seemed to be spoiling for a fight. 

The Avengers admitted that the MOE had the muscle to spoil for it. Their recent recruits had given them an edge, as if they really needed one, and they outnumbered the heroes in this instance. Considering the Avengers had always believed in strength of numbers, that was saying something. Also, the Avengers were rightly considered the most powerful hero team in existence.   
But now they were going into battle without two of their key players, Captain America and Iron Man. They'd make up for it. The team was trained to fight in whatever membership capacity they possessed. Still, Cap was an inspiration and a master tactician, and Shellhead was the strongest Avenger save Thor. 

The heck with that, thought Hawkeye. The Avengers had come through everything so far. If he and his arrows had anything to say about it, they'd come through this. 

"All right, people," he said through his headset. "There's no point in tryin' for surprise. The Asgard Squad's gonna be showing up when they can, but the bad guys know about 'em already. We're just going to hit 'em, hit 'em hard, and hit 'em fast. They've probably got some surprises. Be ready. Take 'em down, knock 'em out, disarm 'em, go on to the next one. Watch out for your buddies and...watch out for yourselves. 

"One thing. Thor, I know you and your lady wanna tag up with the Executioner and his girl. But it'd serve us better if you could take out some of the small fry first. The rest of you, remember another tactic. If we can gang up on one at a time and take him down, so much the better. Like, I dunno, World War I airfighters or somethin'. But in case they don't wanna play it according to Hoyle...play it the way it's dealt. 

"Any questions?" 

Silence. 

"Okay. Get ready to drop." The airport was almost below them. It was easy to see the space the Masters of Evil had cleared for themselves. The wreckage of planes littered its perimeter. The cops and the National Guard were ringing the landing field itself, behind barricades. Not even news helicopters were allowed overhead. There were news crews behind the sawhorses, but not anywhere in front of them. 

Like the spectators at the Roman arenas, thought Hawkeye. They called 'em Coliseums, didn't they? Like wrestling arenas? 

"Hawkeye! Above!" 

The voice was Pietro's, coming through his headphones. Naturally, he'd be the first to see it. There were shouts from the others. Hawkeye looked up. 

Above them was the Squadron Sinister member, Dr. Spectrum, in his costume of many colors. But it was the power prism in his hand that drew one's attention. 

Especially when twin beams stabbed down from it, hit the Avengers' Quinjets, and slammed them to a hard, rough, and potentially deadly emergency landing, screeching onto the tarmac. 

The battle had begun. 

-M- 

Robbie Robertson was wondering about the chief's behavior. That was nothing unusual. But in the present crisis, nothing was. The main thing he wondered about was why Jameson had called him in for a conference. 

Jonah was staring out the window at the afternoon sky. 

"Sir?" Robbie shut the door behind himself and waited. 

Without turning, Jameson said, "It's happening, Robbie. Gotterdammerung." 

The city editor nodded. "I understand, Jonah. Armaggeddon." 

Fury in his eyes, Jameson turned. "Not that, you idiot! Armaggeddon's Christian. The last fight between good guys and bad guys. God wins. This isn't that. I read Norse myths when I was a kid. Gotterdammerung was their last battle. It wasn't so cheerful." 

Robbie knew better than to disturb Jameson in the middle of a reflection, or a rant. He didn't know which this was, but he knew enough to keep quiet. 

"In the Norse myths, everybody dies. The good guys with the bad guys. Then the world gets reborn, somewhere down the line. Maybe it's cyclical. But the point is, in Gotterdammerung, nobody gets out alive." Jameson lit a cigar, took a couple of puffs on it, and took it out of his mouth. "That's us, Robbie. The gods are fighting, and we get to look on in fear and trembling. Either way it goes, we're dead." 

"It may not be that bad, Jonah." 

"Like blazes it isn't. The Silver Surfer, going berserk. The SHIELD Heli-Carrier dropping out of the sky. Super-freaks fighting it out all over the country. The damned kids and the black radicals rising up in concert with it. It's just like I always feared, Robbie. It's just like I always expected. 

"Do you know..." Jameson looked at Robbie, looked down at the carpet, then looked up again, focusing. "Do you know why I've always spoken out against Spider-Man, and all the other costumed nuts? Do you know why, Robbie?" 

"I've had a few suspicions, Jonah, but never got a direct answer from you." 

"That's because there's several answers, Robbie. All of them good ones. They wouldn't be J. Jonah Jameson reasons otherwise. One great reason is that controversy sells papers. No other paper in town attacks Spider-Man. We do. That makes us unique, makes us stand out in people's minds. You may disagree, but our circulation went up when we started doing it, back in '62, and it hasn't really slacked off since. So, commercialism: that's a big reason, and a good one. 

"But there's more than that, of course. You remember 1962. My son...my son John...he was an astronaut. Still is. His flight was set to outdo even Glenn's. Schoolkids would know his name, write letters to him. The president would give him a White House reception, and I'd have gone, just to grin in JFK's face. My son. He was a brave boy, a good boy. Still is. 

"And then, what happens? In comes Spider-Man, taking the attention, commanding the spotlight, stealing my son's glory. I could not abide that, Robbie. I would not abide that...not ever. Even when that glory-hogging itch of a webslinger sabotaged John's capsule..." 

"The evidence shows quite the contrary, Jonah–" 

"I said, even when he sabotaged it! Even then, I hit him in the morning heads. It worked. Instead of being this big, hero-saving glory-hog, Spider-Man gets to be the person people kind of wonder about. Kind of begin to doubt. I did my job, and I did it well, Robbie. No matter how many times our paths have crossed since then, this paper always gives me the upper hand over Spider-Man. It always will. 

"There's another...layer...of course, to the argument. About a year or two after we started the editorials, the coverage, I had to admit to myself that there was a bit of me that was, for lack of a better word, jealous. Robbie, I make almost a million dollars a year, before taxes. Whoever that kid is behind that mask, I can bet he's nowhere near the same income bracket. I can talk with government officials from the White House on down to the local police precinct, and I have. I can tell the man in the street what to believe, feed him the information I want, and make him my puppet, to a certain degree. My name is known, Robbie. I am a power in this city. 

"But I can't go out there and punch a crook in the jaw. I can't lift boulders on my back, or fly through the air, or even swing through it on the end of a web. Kids don't join the J. Jonah Jameson Fan Club. They join that, whatever it is, Merry Marvel Marching Society crap. For everything...for everything I am, I am only a mortal man." 

Jameson was quiet for a long time. Robertson finally spoke up. "I'd hazard a guess that, behind all the powers, Spider-Man is, too, sir." 

"Of course he is! Of course he is, dammit! But what did you just say, Robbie? 'Behind the powers.' That's it. The powers. That's what makes him different from you and me and the president and the Pope and Joe Schmo down at the corner newsstand. He can...he can do things, Robbie. I've seen him. You've seen him. We've both seen him crawl up walls and spin webs and lift great weights and jump great spans, and...all the stuff he does. We both know him probably as well as anyone in this city that doesn't wear a union suit in public. 

"For all we are, we'll never be like him. Not in the least. There's over a score of them out there now, Robbie. And almost a score of villains, for every one of them. And what are we? Are we the Greek audiences for the plays about the gods? Are we listening with fear to the Voice from the mountain? Or are we just...too insignificant to count? 

"I could never accept that, Robbie, even if I suspected it might be true. So I had to...I had to use the Bugle as a weapon. If anything could bring him down, and maybe the others after him, the Bugle could do it. If those idiots are the next step in human evolution, we'll let them know that the last step isn't going without a fight. So, yes. I'm jealous of him. But I think I have a right to be." 

Jameson put the cigar in his cut-glass ashtray. He decided he didn't want to be waving it around anymore and getting ashes on the carpet. He leaned against the edge of the desk and looked up at Robbie Robertson again. "There's more. You know that, don't you?" 

"Yes, Jonah," sighed Robbie. "I'm sure there's more." 

"The most important reason of all, Robbie. Because of this." Jameson waved his hand at the window. Nothing abnormal was in view, but Robertson knew. His boss was taking in the entirety of this tormented country in that wave. Jonah was probably near the end of his soliloquy. 

"Thirty years ago, Robbie. Thirty years ago, we almost did it to ourselves. There were a few of those 'mystery-men' running around, but outside of Sub-Mariner and the Human Torch, they didn't seem to amount to a lot. They didn't have the power this new crew has. Now...my God. Every week, it seems like New York is London during the Blitz. So far, not too many lives have been lost, but we've been riding that hope for eleven years now. The hope may have already run out. 

"Do you know why I called Galactus a hoax, Robbie? Because I knew he wasn't. Yes. I knew there was a thirty-foot-tall man on top of the Baxter Building, about to destroy the world. So did a lot of people. The entire city, maybe the entire nation, was on the verge of panic for three days. Sure, the Fantastic Four fixed things up, or so they said. Hell, he came back again and they did their number again. But...to the common man, Robbie, to the man in the street...what must he think of such happenings, of such beings? To know that there's something beyond all of our ken, something, unlike God, that you can see and hear and maybe even touch...that destiny might not be in the hands of the human race, after all?" 

"Seems like the human race did okay that time, if you count Reed Richards as human," said Robbie. "Sorry to interrupt." 

"Yeah, well...Richards pulled it out of the fire that time. But most men aren't Reed Richards, Robbie. When I was younger, my wife dragged me to a play, can't remember the writer...thing about a doll's house. The bit was, the analogy he made is that we may all be like dolls in a doll house, with forces, God, whatever, moving us around without our volition, maybe without us even knowing about it. Galactus...great God, he made me feel like I was living in a doll's house. 

"And if I felt that way, how many million other people felt the same way? So I had to scoff at it, Robbie. I had to ridicule it. I had to make believe that Galactus was the boogeyman, that if we opened the closet door and turned on the light, he'd go away. And he did. He came back, but he went away again. He left us alone, to go back to our wars, our nuclear weapons, our race haters on all sides, our crummy politicians and two-bit hacks and...all the stuff that makes life worth living. Up against Galactus, that didn't look so bad. 

"I heard from people, Robbie. I heard from people who thanked me for that editorial. They didn't want to believe in Galactus, either. Some of them said they did believe, but they were glad I gave them a reason to disbelieve. We got back to work. We all got back to work. We had to. We were better off with an unseen God than somebody who sits on top of a building and wants to eat the world. 

"If I resisted the super-types and their world long enough, maybe things would right themselves. Maybe they'd go back to being the way they were in the Fifties. But I always feared this, Robbie. Power against power. Every conflict building on the last one. Like gang wars in Chicago, but with atomic blasts instead of machine gun bullets. Men with power beyond human ken, and nothing but their own conscience to curb them, taking action at least once a month. Were they saving the world, or endangering it in another way? I don't know. I don't know. 

"But this is what I always feared. The day it was wound up too tight, and popped in all our faces. The battle there was no coming back from. Not Armaggeddon. 

"Gotterdammerung. 

"So. Tell me, Robbie. Tell me, please. Was I wrong to fear them? Was I wrong to speak against them? Do you know?" 

Robbie Robertson sank into a chair, shaded his eyes with both hands, and finally spoke very slowly to his boss. 

"I can only give you an answer to your last question, Jonah. And the answer, as honestly as I can put it is: I don't know. I just don't know." 

Jonah looked at the man he had trusted for over six years, and waited before speaking. 

"Want to go home, Robbie? We might be able to put the evening sheet to bed early." 

"No," said Robertson. "The thing isn't nearly ready. Besides, I'm holding back till the last minute. It's like Kennedy in '63 here. Whatever we put out, it's going to be outmoded in a minute." 

Jonah snorted for a laugh. "Think I might be able to blame this on that consarned irresponsible Spider-Man?" 

Robbie smiled. "If you can't, I won't believe it's really you." 

The publisher of the Daily Bugle picked up his cigar, put it in his mouth, rolled up his sleeves, and picked up the morning edition of the paper from the desk behind him. "Get out there and get to it, or get your resume in an envelope. We've got a paper to publish." 

Smiling, Robbie Robertson left. 

-M- 

The Cathedral was as silent as death, and Captain America had a feeling that was all too appropriate. 

He had been raised a Lutheran, not a Catholic, but he didn't count any house of God alien to himself. Even when overseas, in the temples of Buddhists or Muslims, he respected the traditions of those foreign to him. Steve Rogers was never loath to bend the knee to his own God, whether in church or out of it. There was good reason for there to be no atheists in a foxhole, and Steve had been in one foxhole or another for all of his adult life. 

The note he received promised that his friends would be killed outright if police were detected on the scene. So he came alone, as wary as if he were entering a house held by the Nazis. In a very real sense, it was. 

Cap affixed a rope to one of the handgrips of his shield, whirled the great three-colored disk in the air by the rope, and then threw it, letting the rope pass through his hands quickly. The shield crashed through what he hoped was the most replaceable window in an upper story. He didn't believe he had much chance of taking his foe unawares, but neither did he believe in just walking over the front door welcome mat. 

A couple of quick tugs with his red-gloved hands indicated that the shield had found purchase. Cap set his boots against the outer wall of the cathedral and scaled it, knowing he was making himself visible to passers-by, knowing that he had to do whatever he did with quickness, and knowing that, so far, all the cards were in his enemy's favor. 

But that was hardly an odd occurrence. 

This war had gone on between them long after the conflict that spawned them. Even while both of them slept, other men had put on their faces and continued the fight. When Captain America came back to life in 1964, he had hoped his old foe was as dead as his Fuhrer. But a year later, Cap had to deal with the three Sleepers his enemy had created. And a year after that... 

...well, he learned that some things were fated to follow him. 

The three-colored hero pulled himself over the window's edge, carefully, beating down the jagged edges of glass with his gauntlets first. The room was an upper study. Cap breathed shallowly, as noiselessly as he could, and looked about the site for traps. None were obvious, but none would be. He took his shield in hand, undid the rope, and opened the door, pushing the shield out first. Nothing struck it. Tentatively, silently, he ventured forth. 

There was nothing in the hall, nothing in the upper rooms that seemed out of the ordinary. Cap descended a stairway, turned a bend in it, and stopped short. 

A priest lay, face up, dead on the stairs. His arms were splayed out behind him, thankfully not arranged in a cruciform position. His face was horror enough. 

The flesh on it was shriveled to what appeared to be only a micron's thickness of covering over the bone. 

And it was colored a deep, bloody, ghastly red. 

Captain America took a long breath. A corpse was hardly enough to horrify him. He'd seen his share of them, and more, in the war. But this obscenity, this desecration, was beyond even his tolerance. Even his enemy had, to his knowledge, never taken the life of a man of God. 

Until now. 

Carefully, Cap stepped over the corpse, not disturbing it. There was no telling whether or not the enemy had secreted a pressure-triggered bomb underneath the priest's body. He descended the rest of the stairs, to another hall. 

The site of a nun in the same condition as the priest made him gag. 

Fighting back his nausea, the sentinel of liberty continued on, guessing that his foe's sense of theatrics would make the main hall their place of battle. But every step of the journey had to be scrutinized for traps. 

When the doors to the place of worship were in view, he heard organ music. A tune that was all too familiar. 

Chopin's Death March. 

There was no time for subtleties anymore. Cap smashed through the doors, shield foremost, and looked upon the scene before him in horror. 

Beaten bloody, hung by their arms from the ceiling by chains, but still alive, the Falcon and Sharon Carter were visible on the walls near the pulpit. First Sharon, then Falc, turned bruised faces towards him. Their feet were at least ten feet above the floor, and their arms showed the strain. 

The organ was playing without anyone seated at it. 

Cap charged forward, knowing his enemy would have to show himself or risk letting Cap free one of his friends. The enemy did not disappoint. 

A smoke bomb exploded before him. Cap whisked his shield before him like a fan, dissipating it as fast as he could. But he heard the familiar, gutteral sounds of a voice he'd come to know as well as his own, beyond it. 

"This must be the last time, Hauptmann Amerika. For both of us, this must be the very last." 

It was all too pat that the sight of a mirthlessly grinning crimson skull appeared before him even before the billows of smoke were dispersed very much. 

Captain America and the Red Skull lunged at each other, with deadly intent. 

-M- 

Gary Gilbert made the last checkups on his Firebrand armor and decided, as much as he held the play of super-villain against super-hero in disdain, there was still something to be said for the way one felt when in costume. Especially in a metal costume. 

With a long sigh, he made up his mind. He walked to the airplane, swung himself inside the cockpit, closed the hatch, secured it, made a last-minute check of all systems, and fired up the engine. Of course, he hardly needed the plane to fly. He needed it to carry cargo. 

He needed it to start the Fire. 

To be continued...   



	25. Part 25:  Death Looks Triumphantly

FIRE! 

Part 25 

by DarkMark 

One entire ward in Dallas's Parkland Hospital had to be kept under heavy security. That wasn't surprising, as one of the X-Men had to have an emergency operation. The surgery had been successful and Toshiro Yoshida would soon regain full use of the arm in which he had been shot. But not today. 

Instead, the Japanese mutant sat stoically in bed, his wounded arm in a sling, out of costume, and spoke with Havok and Cyclops.   
"I'm very proud of you, Shiro," said Alex. "You came through this battle even after taking a bullet, and you obeyed orders and let the Monolith live." 

"One only hopes that this action proves to be the right one," Yoshida replied. "If he regains his power and uses it to crush and destroy anew, we will all remember the choice we made, and wonder." 

"No, Shiro," said Cyclops. "We'll remember, but we won't wonder. We're X-Men, not assassins. We don't play judge, jury, or God. Just cops 'n' robbers." He smiled, gently. Despite himself, he was beginning to like the new X-Man he figured he'd like least. 

"Understood," said Toshiro, shifting a bit in bed. "The one lesson a samurai learns above all is to obey his shogun. Each of you, and Xavier, may serve as my shogun." 

"Thanks, Shiro," Havok said, standing with one foot on a plastic chair and massaging his temples. "I'll always remember that." 

"What of our adversaries?" 

Cyclops said, "We've handed them over to the Army and FEMA. They've got them in some Tony Stark restraining gizmos now. Can't send 'em back to Ryker's just yet, but we'll figure something out. Or FEMA will, most likely." 

Toshiro said, "What of the war, Scott?" 

The man with the visor shifted a bit uneasily. "We've been asked to provide help when we can. But I don't think it's right to throw the team into battle so quickly after our last fight. We need at least 24 hours of down time, unless it really looks like we're required at once. SHIELD is sending some branch agents to guard you for the week. We'll make out all right, Shiro." 

"I have no doubt of that, after what I have seen." Toshiro stuck out his good hand, and Scott Summers took it for a shake. Alex did the same a few moments later. "Will you be returning to the mansion today?" 

"No," said Scott. "Tonight we stay in Dallas. Tomorrow we'll either go home or hit the battlefield again. Tonight, we need the rest." 

"What of the Silver Surfer? They say that he has begun rampaging up and down the East Coast." 

Alex looked at his brother, then gave Sunfire an honest answer. "What good do you think we'd do against him?" 

Toshiro tilted his head curiously, looking at Havok. "The point is not what we can do against him. The point is that we do something." 

Havok sighed. "Point, as usual, well taken. But Scott's and my decision stands, Shiro. Now get some rest." 

"Cyclops? Havok? Cyclops?" 

The three of them heard the words a scant second before Marvel Girl threw open the door to the hospital room. A guard was behind her as an escort. The redheaded telepath in the yellow mask and green miniskirt costume looked more than tense to Scott, more than agitated. This time, she looked downright scared. 

He moved to take her by the arms. "Calm down, honey, and give me the information. What's happened?" 

"Nothing I can verify," said Jean Grey, careful not to call her husband by his real name in front of the guard. "But that's just it. I tried to send a mental call to the Professor, to let him know how things had gone, the surgery and everything—and----he isn't there." 

"He isn't there?" Havok echoed Jean's words. In his bed, Toshiro was alert and still, as action-ready as they'd ever seen him. 

"I can't reach him," said Marvel Girl. "I tried the phone, nothing. Either he's been moved, or moved himself, or—" 

Cyclops rapped, "We're going back to headquarters and we're going now. Get the team together with a mental summons." 

"Double that for my team," said Havok, tersely. "But somebody needs to call Duncan. Tell Magnetica to do that. He can get there before any of us can. Tell him to bring a police escort and an ambulance. And tell him who he might be facing." 

Jean sighed and nodded, almost too spent with emotion and battle to speak. Amos Fred Duncan was the X-Men's FBI liaison. He was in the New York area and would indeed be able to render aid to Professor X before any of them could arrive. Provided, of course, Xavier was in the mansion. 

"Sunfire," said Havok, turning towards the hospital bed. He tried to speak, but only managed silence for a few seconds. Finally, he said, "We'll keep you posted. Let's go." 

And, with the silent blessing of Toshiro Yoshida, they went. 

-M- 

If Agatha Harkness thought that letting Franklin Richards watch his parents and friends in battle, she gave no sign. The little boy knew what the Fantastic Four did for a living. Reed Richards had made it clear to him as soon as Franklin could understand: they fought bad men, and they saved the planet. This they did on a regular basis. 

Franklin was very proud of his father. 

The cameras which witnessed the action were mounted somewhere on the Fantasticar. Every few seconds they would switch perspective automatically. It wasn't as good as a human cameraman could do, but it was a workable compromise. 

"Aunt Agatha, what're they doin' now?" demanded Franklin, stabbing his finger at the screen. "What're they doin' now?" 

In a kindly tone, the only one she ever seemed to use, Agatha said, "They are fighting for their lives, dear." 

Reed Richards, in battle with a host of foes, had thrown a metal sphere into the Sandman's grainy mass. Somehow, it magnetized his sandy molecules and rearranged them into a ball, incapable of motion on its own, no matter how Flint Marko strove to resist. In the time that Richards had thrown it, he had been blasted by the Wizard's wonder gloves when the latter swooped down from the skies above. The Human Torch had taken time out from his own pitched battle to nail the Wizard with a fireball. But there were still so many, many foes. 

The Thing, having been saved from becoming a glue-sculpture of the Trapster's gun by the intervention of Sue Richards's force shield, was using the Trapster as a body flail against the enemy. They were going down like tenpins before his assault, and Sue was shoving a squadron of villains along with an invisible force-wall. 

That just accounted for the Fantastic Four themselves. Their allies, the Inhumans, Daredevil, and the Black Widow, were all giving good account of themselves. But it was difficult. Karnak was confounded by the Red Ghost, who phased out of material existence whenever the martial artist from Attilan tried to land a blow. Daredevil found himself hard-pressed to match muscle and athletic ability against Kraven the Hunter, who was still seething that he had been unable to kill Spider-Man in this venture and was willing to spill the Man Without Fear's blood just to make himself feel better. Crystal, with her mastery of natural elements, was dueling the Plantman, master of vegetative life, and holding her own. 

To her credit, Medusa was taking on all of the Terrible Trio, by name Yogi Dakor, Harry Philips, and Bull Brogin, and using her hair to defeat them all without breaking much of a sweat. Black Bolt was having problems in aerial battle, trying to tag either of the two Vultures with his molecular blasts and dodging bursts from ray-weapons the pair had been given by the Wizard. Gorgon was facing off against the Gladiator and the Red Ghost's three super-apes, having stepped before the man with the whirling blades before he could get to Daredevil and upsetting him with a concrete-cracking stamp of his hoof. The Black Widow had stunned the Hate-Monger with her Widow's Bite before the mysterious villain could employ his hate-ray. But she took an impact-vibration from the Shocker's gimmicked fists that knocked her off her feet and almost rendered her unconscious. And nobody seemed to know what Diablo was doing, but they knew enough to get out of the way whenever he lobbed one of his deadly alchemical vials. 

It was chaos. 

Several gimmicks Reed had brought along to use in their favor had been neutralized by the Wizard and Dr. Octopus. Right now, Doc Ock was wrapping several of his tentacles around the Thing's throat and squeezing with the power of a hundred boa constrictors. Ben Grimm grabbed several of Octopus's metallic arms with both hands and heaved, throwing Ock overhead. But the leader of the Sinister Six used two of his arms to cushion his fall, and kept on squeezing. The Beetle covered Ben's face with his sucker-fingers and cut off what air the Thing still had coming to him. 

A second later, both villains had to let loose. The Torch's fiery assault from above didn't leave them much choice. 

But both of them were still up, and still fighting. 

That was the case, at least, when the lot of heroes and villains heard an amplified voice nearby. 

"MRS. RICHARDS. DEPLOY YOUR FORCE FIELD AROUND YOURSELF AND YOUR ALLIES. REPEAT. DEPLOY YOUR FORCE FIELD AROUND YOURSELF AND YOUR ALLIES. NOW." 

Reed, standing beside Sue, noticed her astonishment. It only took him a second to process the necessary information. He said, "Sue. Surround every one of us you can. Our side and theirs. Now." 

Without a word, the Invisible Girl deployed her force field. It couldn't be seen. It only existed as a set of energy waves generated by her mind. But it was tangible, and it was well-nigh impenetrable as long as she kept her concentration focused. She extended it in the form of a dome over herself, the rest of the Fantastic Four, the Inhumans, Daredevil, the Black Widow, and as many of the enemy as she could. Most of them seemed to be as surprised as she was. 

The two Vultures were still outside the field. The Wizard, flying by the power of his anti-grav disc, guessed what was happening, turned white underneath his helmet, and turned up his disc's power all the way. He was barely able to breathe the air at the level he ascended to when he slowed himself to a stop. 

The ones below that were outside of Sue's field wouldn't be so fortunate. 

By choice or chance, the Hate-Monger wasn't within its bounds. He tried aiming his hate-ray at the collection of heroes and villains inside the force-field. But he seemed, for some reason, unsteady on his feet. He swayed, pitched forward, landed hard on his face, and didn't move. He didn't even breathe. His hate-ray was within reach of his splayed fingers, but they wouldn't be reaching for anything again. 

The two Vultures clawed at their throats and spiraled towards Earth, slamming onto the top of the field and lying there with disturbing expressions on their faces and eyes that were still open, in ghastly fashion. Even Kraven the Hunter did nothing but stand there, trying to be stolid about the matter. Mysterio restrained his vapors, the Eel and Shocker kept their shocks to themselves. The Red Ghost calmed his team of Super-Apes. The Beetle, the Plantman, the Asbestos Man, and all the rest stood and watched what was happening to those not lucky enough to be inside the shield. 

The latter included the members of the Terrible Trio. Handsome Harry Phillips looked anything but handsome as he sprawled on the tarmac, his face registering horror as his last expression. Bull Brogin lay flat on his back. It was hard to see his face, and just as well they couldn't. Yogi Dakor fell off his hovering carpet and lay with an arm over his face, his turban falling off and rolling for a little way before coming to rest. 

"Good god," said Johnny Storm, standing without much concern near the Trapster. "What in the hell is happening?" 

The Thing spoke up. "It's gas, Torchy. Somebody's using gas against us." 

The Gladiator said, in a hollow voice, "Were you behind this, Richards? Was this your idea?" 

Reed Richards turned towards Daredevil's foe. "Never in my worst dreams. I'm not a murderer, Gladiator. Can you say the same?" 

"So far," said the Gladiator. It didn't come off as much of a joke. 

Dr. Octopus, his mechanical arms hanging limply, said, "This goes beyond anything I ever imagined. They wanted to kill us all. It's indescribable." 

"Oh, yeah," said the Torch. "Like that wasn't what you and yours were always trying to do to us?" 

"Button it, kid," said the Eel. "We might have wanted to off you, but we ain't mass murderers. Not like this. My God." 

Crystal had her head hidden in her hands as she knelt on the tarmac. Medusa and the Black Widow were by her side to comfort her. Daredevil kept watch by radar sense on Black Bolt, whose posture indicated extreme rage. If he broke free, there was no telling what would happen to them all. Thankfully, Karnak and Triton came to him, explained that giving way to rage would expose them all to the gas, and calmed him somewhat. Matt Murdock breathed a bit more easily. 

Nobody was fighting. There didn't seem to be any point to it, anymore. 

Now men in uniforms were coming onto the field. They were clad in all-covering garments of white. There were sophisticated gas masks on their face, and they held modified rifles of some sort in their gloved hands. They were only a small squad, no more than twelve or so. One of them knelt down, opened a small black case, and extracted a canister. He held it overhead for several seconds. Then he pulled it back down, twisted something, observed the result, and nodded to a white-garbed soldier beside him. The soldier gave a thumb's-up signal to whoever was watching on the perimeter.   


Sue Richards was holding tight to her husband's arm. "The government. Our government. Using gas against...against us. Reed..." 

"I know, Sue," said Reed. "Hold fast. Don't let the field down yet. No matter what, don't let it down." 

"I will kill them," said Kraven, almost softly. "As God is my witness, I will kill them all." 

Daredevil spoke up. "Don't be a fool, Kraven. Those aren't super-heroes or cops out there. Those are soldiers. Very special soldiers. They aren't under any orders to take you alive. Mess with them, and you'll wind up with more lead in your body than calcium." 

"I can evade them." 

"Are you stupid enough to try?" 

Kraven had nothing to say to that. 

Now other soldiers were coming onto the field. They weren't wearing masks or protective clothing. They relieved the white-suited squad, but their armament looked, if anything, even more deadly. One of them raised a bullhorn to his lips. "MRS. RICHARDS. YOU MAY RELEASE YOUR FORCE FIELD. THE DANGER IS PAST. BUT I MUST ADVISE EVERYONE OF YOU NOT TO MOVE. ANYONE MAKING A THREATENING MOTION WILL BE FIRED UPON. REPEAT, WE WILL FIRE UPON ANYONE MAKING A THREATENING MOTION. THANK YOU." 

"What the hell are we supposed to do?" snapped the Plantman. "Say 'You're welcome'?" 

"You're supposed to close your mouth and sit tight," said Medusa in a nasty tone, still by her frightened sister. 

Reed Richards nodded to his wife. Sue Storm Richards dissipated the invisible energy field and held her breath until she couldn't hold it any longer. Thankfully, the next breath she took didn't kill her. 

The bodies of the dead villains were being zipped into body bags and removed with efficiency. The soldiers moved with equal efficiency among the superhuman personnel, distinguishing friend from foe and disarming the latter (except for Dr. Octopus, who literally couldn't be disarmed). Triton and Karnak still stood beside a seething Black Bolt. Medusa had Crystal in her arms, and the Torch was going to their side. 

"No, Johnny," said Medusa. "Not right now." 

"I'm her man, Medusa," said Johnny Storm. "Let me talk to her." 

"She doesn't want to talk to anyone just now," said the woman with the six-foot hair. "Go." 

"I won't." 

"Johnny." The voice was that of Sue Richards, now. The Torch looked in her direction and saw his sister looking on, almost ashen-faced, very grim, but commanding. Swearing under his breath, Johnny Storm turned and walked away for a short distance. 

"Mr. Grimm," said one of the soldiers. "I'm assuming that ball of sand is the Sandman, correct?" 

"What if it is?" rumbled the Thing. 

"Well. We'd appreciate your help in loading him onto a truck." 

"Ain't doing nothing. Not for you. Do it yourself." The Thing turned on his heel and put distance between him and the soldier. 

Medusa, now standing beside Black Bolt, spoke up. "My liege, Black Bolt, wishes me to speak for him. He feels that this is...a dishonorable situation...unworthy of his alliance...and he wishes us to withdraw. Therefore..." 

"No!" Reed Richards stretched his hand clear across the field to lay it on Black Bolt's shoulder. "Old friend, I'm going to need you here for a few more moments. I'm just as disgusted as you are...more so, if that's possible. But if we don't stand together...something a lot worse can happen. Please, Black Bolt. For my sake, stand with us." 

"Mr. Richards, I must–" one of the soldiers began. 

"Shut up!" yelled the Invisible Girl. Johnny and the Thing both whirled to look at her in astonishment. 

After another few seconds, Black Bolt took Medusa by the shoulders and looked at her. Then Medusa turned to the others. "Black Bolt wishes me to say that he will stay, for the sake of Reed Richards and our other friends. But he warns you...we all warn you...that we will tolerate no more killing. On either side." 

Dr. Octopus chuckled. Twirling the end of one arm jauntily, he said, "Politics indeed makes strange bedfellows. But none as strange as ourselves, eh, Richards?" 

Reed looked at him in disgust. "Save it, Octopus. I can't condone even you being murdered." 

"Nice to note your concern," Octopus replied. 

One of the soldiers, apparently the commander, stepped up to talk with Mr. Fantastic. "Mr. Richards? Lieut. Don Barsolo." He stuck out his hand for a shake. Reed pointedly kept his arms folded. Barsolo continued, "We don't propose to kill anyone else here. The situation is currently under control. All we want to do is take the outlaws into custody, process them, and turn them back over to the authorities. That's all." 

"Yeah, process us!" said the Eel. "Like maybe through a gas chamber, or a firing squad? And then crematories? Process us like you processed the Vultures? How about it, heroes? You gonna stand by for murder?" 

"No." 

Daredevil was the speaker this time, and he strode up to Reed and the lieutenant, billy club in hand. "That is one thing we absolutely will not stand for. American law, American justice, is not represented by mass murder. Not even of super-criminals. Make a move on them, soldier, and you'll fight us all together. Me first. That's a promise." 

Looking at him, Natasha Romanoff had never been so proud of her lover. Matt Murdock was the kind of American she had imagined the country being populated by, when she defected. This squalid scene had the feel of a Stalinist massacre, no matter who wore the uniforms. But thank God there were others in different uniforms to stand against them. "I stand with him," she declared. "If this land is to stand for something better than tyranny, let it do so now." 

"This isn't tyranny!" proclaimed Lieutenant Barsolo. "This isn't murder, dammit! We neutralized some super-powered thugs who were out to kill you people, and this is your response to us?" 

The Thing snapped, "You didn't neutralize nobody, Charlie. You murdered 'em. Know the difference?" 

"We don't have time for this right now," said Barsolo. "If you would, Mr. Richards, please tell your team and associates to move to the side, over there. We need to finish our assignment." 

"On the contrary, Lieutenant," said Reed Richards, coldly. "This is exactly the time for this action. When the time of greatest pragmatism faces us, it is the time for the greatest morality and ethics. The only way our opponents will leave today is in our custody. Otherwise, you'll fight us all." 

There was silence across the field for a long moment. Then Barsolo said, "That's it, then?" 

"That's it," confirmed Reed. 

Johnny Storm smiled, ready to break into flame at a moment's notice, and prouder to stand by Reed today then when they first faced Galactus. He glanced at Sue, saw tears in her eyes, and figured that she duplicated his feelings in spades. 

The lieutenant sighed. "All right, then. We wait. We'll just wait." 

"For what?" asked Johnny. 

Barsolo shot him a nasty look. "I'm going to get in touch with my superiors. I warn you, I doubt very much they give a flying damn about the Fantastic Four." 

"That makes us square, chum," said Ben Grimm. "That's about the way we feel about them." 

"You tell 'em, Orange Crush!" yelled the Asbestos Man, and then shut up, embarrassed with himself. 

Somebody must have been about to say something more. All of it was being heard, and most of it was being seen, by Agatha Harkness and Franklin Richards. If something else had been said, they would have been able to hear it. The Fantasticar's monitor system ensured that. 

They heard something else. 

A sound that was like unto the very air being scorched, of something with great energy and potential impact, accompanied by a hideous yellow glow. It probably wasn't exactly like a stunted comet. But it happened so fast, not even Franklin or Agatha could have described it. 

Certainly the others on the field couldn't. 

A blast of yellow energy struck the tarmac, and an explosion of incredible force filled the area. 

The echoing of its sound took a long time to fade, and the smoke and debris which accompanied it were still enveloping the field. The noise had almost been deafening. But it had faded enough for the sound of a distinctive pair of boots to be heard, walking through the area. 

Boots which clanked with a certain metal sound. 

And when the smoke cleared enough to let them see who the walker was, neither Agatha nor Franklin were surprised to see Dr. Doom. 

-M- 

The battle was taken to the Avengers almost before they could emerge from the Quinjets. For once, the great conglomeration of heroes was facing a superior force in numbers, possibly in power as well, and it was tough to rally. Nonetheless, they met the challenge. 

With the power of the Mandarin to coordinate them all, the Masters of Evil attacked. 

The Whizzer and Whirlwind made a double-pronged attack on Quicksilver, overwhelming him. Wanda attempted to help with a hex, but was zapped almost unconscious by the Enchantress's magic. The Executioner and Hyperion were both ganging up on Thor and treating him to some awesome punishment. Sif plowed in with her sword swinging, but the beam of Dr. Spectrum lifted her off the ground and kept her there. Without flight powers, Sif seemed helplessly caught. 

Hawkeye loosed a shaft at Spectrum, but it bounced off a shield of force. As he did so, Clint was tackled from the side by the blue-and-black clad Nighthawk, who bore him to the ground and fitted his hands around his throat. "Pity Captain America isn't here," remarked the Squadron member. "But I'll take what I can get." 

That was when the Black Panther pulled him off from behind and shook him like a rag. "You shall take nothing, scum, least of all the life of a friend." Nighthawk tried to kick or slug backward, but the Panther was too strong and too well-positioned. Hawkeye, regaining his breath, got to his feet and unloaded a haymaker on Nighthawk's jaw. Two more like it put their foe out. T'Challa let him fall to the asphalt. 

"Thanks, Panth," said Hawkeye in a hoarse voice. "Owe ya one." 

"We shall each owe each other, and all the rest, many more before the day is through," predicted the Panther. "To our friends, Hawkeye." 

The strategy that Clint had discussed on the way there had been abandoned. Right now, the Avengers were doing their best to survive. Ant-Man and the Wasp were trying to bedevil the villains with their insect allies, but it just wasn't enough. The Melter trained his weapon on both Quinjets and turned them into molten metal. For once, the heroes were glad that Iron Man wasn't there. 

But the Masters of Evil were at full strength, and beyond. Power Man, the heir apparent of the long-lost Wonder Man, was storming onto the field of battle, leading the Living Laser, the Swordsman, and the Man-Ape, all late alumni of the Lethal Legion, another anti-Avengers group.   
Hawkeye tensed, looking at them. He'd fought the Swordsman before, beaten him time and again. But every time, he knew he was looking at the man who had, when Clint Barton was a young man, almost killed him. 

A few weeks ago, the Swordsman was an Avenger once more. Now, here he was on the other side. 

That was when the man with the blade caught Hawkeye's eye, lifted his blade, aimed it at Power Man, and let loose a burst of electrical energy that dropped the villain in his tracks. 

"Sword!" Hawkeye was astonished enough to hesitate nocking an arrow to his bow. Without pausing, the Swordsman slammed the flat of his blade against the head of the Living Laser, knocking him cold. He tore the Laser's wrist-weapons off his arms, rendering his former ally helpless. 

A second later, the Swordsman bounded up to Hawkeye. "You seem a bit confused, Barton," he noted. 

"Yeah, ya might say that," allowed Hawkeye. "How come you're changing sides more often than Russia?" 

The Swordsman didn't smile. "I changed sides the last time when I fought side-by-side with you against those monsters from Olympus. Being a super-villain never paid off for me, Clint. Being an Avenger...well, that reminded me of something from a long, long time ago. I know there's a lot of bad history between us. For right now...need a friend?" 

Hawkeye almost fired back a quick answer. Then he remembered his own days as an outlaw and Communist dupe, and how, once, the Black Knight had infiltrated the Masters of Evil in much the same way that the Swordsman had done. A decision had to be made. 

"You're in," said Hawkeye. 

The masked man smiled. "Good. Then let's see if the other Masters don't kill me!" 

The others had their hands full. Thor was holding his own against Hyperion and the Executioner, but only by a sliver. The powerful muscles of both villains, combined with Hyperion's searing atomic vision, were taking their toll on the mightiest Avenger. When one well-placed blow from the Squadron Sinister's muscleman put Thor in a daze, Skurge the Asgardian laughed briefly in triumph. 

"Hold him there," ordered the Executioner, and hefted his battle-axe. 

"I take no orders from you," groused Hyperion, but pinned Thor's arms nonetheless. 

As the Executioner's weapon came down, neither of them was paying much attention to a sound like a great popped balloon, not far behind them. Killing the god of thunder took priority over everything else. They didn't feel they had much to fear from rank and file super-heroes, anyway. 

Then a hurled golden mace struck the Executioner's blade and shattered it to flinders. All Skurge ended up hitting Thor with was the haft. It had been quite a while since Skurge was dumbfounded, but that occurrence managed it. 

On the tail of that, a burly, half-naked figure rocketed into the three of them before Hyperion could manage more than, "Look out!" In a trice, the new arrival had grabbed both villains and knocked their heads together with the force of a couple of colliding locomotives. 

Thor shook off his daze and, with a start, recognized his new aide. "Hercules!" he cried, getting to his feet again. "By Odin's great spear Gyungnir, what—" 

"Let me explain as we fight, Thor," said Hercules, smiling, as he pasted Hyperion on the jaw. "It shall make it that much more pleasant." 

"Indeed," said Thor, and got into the fray again, pulling the Executioner away from his friend and slamming an uppercut into Skurge, just below his metal mask-helmet. The blow put the enemy away. Like a chopped life-tree, the Executioner fell and stayed down. 

Hyperion seethed with hatred and frustration, searing Hercules with his deadly vision, trying to get at his throat or kick him in a sensitive spot. For answer, the Olympian god of strength held his foe in one hand, drew back the other in a fist, and then shot the latter forward as if it had been launched from a missile pad. It connected with Hyperion's jaw, producing a satisfying smack, and propelled the super-villain backwards for a good number of yards. He didn't get up, either. 

Thor clasped Hercules's hand, tightly. "'Fore we rejoin the battle, I give thanks to the Lion of Olympus." 

"And I, to the son of Odin," replied Hercules. "To a fellow Avenger." 

"Well said. But, verily, I thought not to see you so soon after our last meeting." 

"Aye, and well you might not," conceded Hercules. "But think not that my father Zeus and I go ignorant of your doings on Earth. After seeing yon battle in the scrying-pool, I demanded the right to come to your aid. With what you and your allies did for us most recently, 'tis only meet." 

Thor nodded. Only weeks ago, he and the total assembly of Avengers had saved the denizens of Olympus from a spell that had turned them all to living crystal, and thwarted Ares's plans to invade Earth, as well as rescuing an amnesiac Hercules. He nodded to the skies, where Dr. Spectrum still held Sif prisoner. "Think you we might alter that?" 

"I think we might," answered Hercules, and went to pick up his golden mace. 

Seconds later, said mace caromed off Dr. Spectrum's head, while Thor's hurled hammer knocked the power prism from his hand and almost shattered the bones in his fingers. He cried out in pain, unable to concentrate on his falling prism, and fell along with it. So did Sif, but she made a better landing. Once on the tarmac, she drew in a deep breath of relief, and then lashed out with her sword against the power prism. It failed to shatter. 

"Sif!" called Thor, rushing towards her. "Waste not thy strength. Doubt I that anyone less than Odin could sunder yon gem." 

"You, Thor, did not have the misfortune of being squeezed nigh to death by the thing," huffed Sif. "But I shall stay my hand." 

Hercules grinned. "Verily, same Sif. If thou ever tirest of life on Earth or Asgard, ask me for a recommendation to Hippolyta's troops." 

"We have battle enough on this plane," Sif said. "I greet thee, friend Hercules, but let us return to work." 

Smiling, Hercules flexed his muscles. "In the words of Hawkeye, 'Thou canst say that again.'" 

The three gods sprinted off to help their fellows. 

The Enchantress was blasting away at the rest of the Avengers with her spells, backed by the Mandarin's powerful ten rings. The Titanium Man was beginning a rampage among the heroes, with potentially fatal results. The Radioactive Man threw deadly bolts of green energy, daring anyone to come within his range. As little as he liked working with his green-suited countryman, the Crimson Dynamo backed his fellows with electric bolts of terrific power. 

The Tumbler looked out on the assemblage and found it almost good. "They'll have 'em all dead before I can get to 'em," he groused. "I won't get to waste a one of 'em." 

He was attacked from behind by a huge grey wolf. 

"Perhaps you should try wasting Red Wolf!" came the voice of the wolf's master. 

Pinned down as he was with the wolf's jaws only inches from his throat, the Tumbler barely had the ability to see his human assailant. The man was apparently an Indian from his skin color, and, since he was bare-chested, enough of that was on display. His head was covered by a mask made from a wolf's head, with the animal's pelt serving as a cape. His pants were standard superhero issue, but his shoes looked more like moccasins. In his hand was a feathered spear. 

"Call off your dog," begged the Tumbler, in a voice slightly over a whisper. "Please, call off your dog." 

"Lobo is a wolf." 

"All right, then, wolf! Call him off, okay? I don't even know you, pal. We got no grudge going here." 

"Be perfectly still, and my brother Lobo will not harm you." 

"Got it." The Tumbler relaxed, and the wolf above him lay down on top of him and started licking his paws. 

Red Wolf ambled up, swung the end of his spear, and tagged the Tumbler hard in the side of the head. The villain obligingly went unconscious. 

"Come, Lobo," directed the Indian hero. "Many more battles must be won this night before we count coup." The wolf got up from the unconscious Tumbler and trotted off beside his master, ready for the next fight. 

Tonight, even if the Avengers who had helped him fell, Red Wolf would fall beside them. 

As the heroes tried to rally against the assault of the enemies, another new arrival made his presence known. It was hard to miss him. The Black Knight, brandishing his Ebony Blade, swooped down from the skies on the wings of Aragorn, his flying white horse. "In the name of Camelot, Avengers Assemble!" he cried, only a second or two before his black sword ripped a furrow across the chestplate of the Titanium Man. Wiring and motors inside were severed and sparked. The terrible rays fired from the Russian villain's hands sputtered out. Cursing in his native tongue, the Dynamo loosed a powerful bolt at the man and the horse that brought them both down. 

It was a little late. 

Hercules somersaulted into the action, leapt at their towering foe, grabbed the jagged edges of the severed metal, and pulled hard in separate directions. The Titanium Man's great armor was peeled off his chest like the skin of an onion. Below, mottled grey and blue flesh testified to how much abuse, both from Soviet scientists and from battles with Iron Man, the titanium titan had suffered. 

"Enow," said Hercules, and dealt him a blow against his green-helmeted jaw that stretched out the Titanium Man with a terrific bang as he fell. 

Thor and Sif were right behind him. The Mandarin was angrily directing a disintegrator beam from one of his rings at the Olympian. With a quick but accurate toss, Thor placed his uru hammer Mjolnir between the two of them at just the right moment to ward off the villain's deadly beam. 

"Thor," snarled the Oriental. "You, I'll kill." His hand was raised for a deadly multi-ring blast at the Avenger from Asgard. 

Tight-lipped, Thor sprinted at the Mandarin before his hammer could even return to him, grasped the villain's two hands before he could even trigger his ring-beams, and forced them to the Mandarin's face, ring-jewels pointed directly at their wielder. "Strike now, Mandarin," advised Thor. "None shall stay thee from using thy deadly beams." 

"Damn you," rasped the Mandarin. His feet were dangling several inches off the ground. Worse, Thor's grip was tightening. But Mjolnir the hammer was returning to Thor, and the thunder god had to let one of the Mandarin's hands go in order to grasp it. The Master of Evil thrust his beringed knuckles into Thor's face. 

He suddenly felt cold steel across his throat. "Aye, take thy shot," commented Sif, from behind him. "See how thou'lt be served." 

Tensely, the Mandarin said, "Avengers have a code against killing." 

"Indeed?" Sif feigned surprise. "Didst thou think that Sif was an Avenger? More fool thou!" 

The next thing the Mandarin saw was five tremendous knuckles, backed by a wrist clad in a red and black band, crashing into his jaw. After that, he saw nothing. 

"My thanks, fair Sif," said Thor, as he loosed his grip on the Mandarin's other wrist and let their foe fall to the asphalt. 

"T'was little, beloved," smiled Sif. "But much more remains before we can claim victor's spoils." 

"Verily," agreed Thor, and, with some effort, he tore the rings from the Mandarin's fingers and stowed them in a pocket of his red cape. Then he and Sif rejoined Hercules and went looking for more battle.   


Elsewhere, the Scarlet Witch was engaged in a deadly standoff with the Enchantress. Her hex power was shielding her from the Asgardian sorceress's might, but the bolt of power from her red-gloved hands was barely holding back the villainess's yellow-hued blast of magic energy. The heartless beauty in the green costume smiled. The Witch was the only Avenger woman who qualified as a warrior, and her death would be satisfying indeed. 

She saw fear in the Witch's eyes, along with her resolve, and that was enough. The Enchantress muttered another spell to redouble the power flow from her hands... 

...and abruptly felt something ethereal transfixing her stomach. 

A yellow-gloved fist was protruding from her abdomen, even though she felt no pain from it. She swiveled her head to look into a familiar red-colored face. 

"You!" she snapped at the Vision. 

"I," agreed the android Avenger, and solidified his arm to a great degree. 

The Enchantress's eyes went wide in pain and shock. She diverted mystic energy into her body, beginning an outflow that blasted the Vision as well. His form was wreathed in orange energy-fire. The Vision's face, always dour, looked more grim than ever. 

The Scarlet Witch, no longer beset by the Enchantress's bolts, panted and loosed another hex-bolt of her own that staggered the villainess. The Vision hardened his arm once again. The Enchantress cried out and kept upping her own energy-attack. 

It was an endurance contest, and the Vision had no doubt that the sorceress would destroy him if he faltered. So he did not falter. 

Despite the Enchantress's power reacting against every atom of his artificial being, he brought the density of his arm up to an unheard-of degree. So much so that the asphalt beneath his feet began to crack with his weight. 

Overextending herself, Wanda bedeviled the Enchantress with bolt after bolt. The blonde demi-goddess screamed in pain and looked with venom upon the Scarlet Witch. "You, next," she vowed. 

Struggling to hold himself together, the Vision said, "Wrong answer," and powered up his density with every iota of strength left to him. 

White energy leaped from the Enchantress's mouth, out of her hands like bolts of lightning, out of her eyes like pale lasers. It was impossible to tell whether or not she was screaming, cursing, or even remaining silent. 

The only thing that was definite was that she slipped off the Vision's arm, her midsection physically undamaged, and fell insensate to the asphalt. 

The Vision almost followed her there. He slumped over her unconscious form, on knees and elbows over her, and seemed to have no power to rise. Wanda ran to him and grasped him by the arm. "Vision, you're hurt!" 

"I will survive," he said, matter-of-factly. 

"Not without help," declared the Scarlet Witch, and tried to pull him to his feet. It was like trying to uproot a mountain. "Get yourself lighter." 

"More than I can manage at this moment," the Vision asserted. "Were I to fall directly down at this moment, I would crush the Enchantress to jelly." 

"Not such a bad idea," said Wanda, the sweat staining the underarms of her pink leotard. "But you can do it, Vish. Come on, just give it a try." 

"No," said another figure who stepped onto the scene. "Just stand there and let me kill you." 

The Radioactive Man pointed his hands, ready to burn them both to ash. 

Before he could manage that, a blue-white comet hit him from the side, knocked him sprawling, landed at least fifty more blows to his head and wherever else it chose to strike him, and rendered him a glowing, unconscious heap lying face up. 

"Pietro," the Witch said, approvingly. "Nice save. Although..." 

Quicksilver slowed enough for them to see him clearly. He was bruised, bleeding slightly, and very, very tired. 

"Oh, Pietro," said Wanda, going to her brother. "What happened?" 

"I had to fight the Whizzer and Whirlwind at the same time," rasped Quicksilver. "Difficult. But, with help, prevailed." 

"Who?" asked the Vision, attempting with some effort to stand. 

For answer, two ant-sized figures crawled from beneath Pietro's shirt collar. "Us," answered the Ant-Man, in a voice amplified by his helmet to make it audible. 

"In other words, Henry Pym, aka Ant-Man and three more aliases, and his ball and chain, the wonderful Wasp," said Janet Van Dyne, flying beside him. "We figured he needed a hand." 

Quicksilver coughed. "They used their insect friends to attack the other two. Stung them, bit them, undermined the ground beneath them. It was just enough for me to recover from their combined assault. Plus, they both seemed to lose their balance." 

"Chalk that up to Jan and I getting inside their masks and messing around in their inner ears," Hank Pym explained. "It ruined their sense of balance long enough for Pietro to counterattack. Of course, we had to ask him not to hit them on the ears." 

"Would've messed my hairdo something awful," quipped Jan. "Dare I say the tide may be turning?" 

"An inaccurate statement at present," said the Vision, "given that a number of our foes are still active. It would be erroneous to presume victory before all are done. Especially given the fact that reinforcements have appeared in previous battles, by space-warp." 

"Feeling better now, Vish?" Wanda asked. As she said it, Hank and Jan noticed the look of distaste on Quicksilver's face. But they said nothing. 

The Vision finally stood without assistance. "I am functional. My density is finally restored to normal, within a .09999716 parameter. Shall we—" 

Their conversation was interrupted by the noise of a Quinjet streaking in from the east, which quickly landed and disgorged its crew. Hogun, Fandral, Balder, Hildegarde, and Volstagg. 

Ant-Man turned to the Vision. "What was that you were saying about reinforcements, Vish?" 

"The Wasp's statement nears 90.75 percent accuracy," said the Vision. "Let us finish this up." 

-M- 

SHIELD had set up temporary shop in a branch office in New Jersey. There was no keeping it secret, given the circumstances, and Nick Fury really didn't give a damn about that at the moment. 

A couple of agents had made contact with him and Val before they had gotten away from Nick's apartment in New York and given them the news of Fury's reinstatement. Val had expected Nick to cut loose with a string of expletives that would have made the football players in his LeRoi Neiman print cower in fear. Instead, he just said, "Take us back," and they had. 

Most of Fury's inner circle of agents had survived the Heli-Carrier disaster. Even Clay Quatermain was still hanging in there. One of the ESP Division, though, was comatose. The casualty and injury rate were still considerable. Fury had gotten used to coping with such things during the Big One, but never hardened himself to accept it as a cost of his deadly business. 

One of the first things he'd asked the pair of agents was, "What about Strange and his boys?" 

"You mean the Defenders, sir?" said one of the courier agents. 

"No, I mean Sidney Strange and his kazoo orchestra," snapped Fury. "Of course I mean the Defenders! What happened to 'em?" 

"They said they were going to track down the Silver Surfer and they left," reported the other courier. "We haven't been in contact with them since." 

"You didn't think of giving any of them a talkie? Or a tracer?" 

"No, sir. Wasn't my job." 

"Soldier–" Nick began, chomping his Cheroot and pointing his black-gloved finger at the man. 

"Nick." Val lay her hand on his right shoulder. "He's right. There is no way we could get them to take on a tracer or a communicator against their wills." 

Fury was silent. Then he asked for a telephone and had arranged the move for SHIELD to New Jersey. 

Now he was trying to coordinate nationwide ops and information and praying Dick Nixon didn't change his mind a second time. Val, Dum Dum, Jimmy, Gabe, and a lamed Sitwell were in his presence as he roamed through the building, trying to catch up with the latest on what seemed like a score of fronts. 

Another courier ran up with a phone. "It's for you, sir. Highest priority. Scrambled." 

"Who is it?" asked Fury, as he took the phone. 

"Coded as Iron Man, sir," the courier replied. 

"Iron Man?" echoed Dum Dum Dugan. Fury took the phone without a word and turned it on. 

"Fury," he said. 

"Nick, this is Iron Man." Fury had heard the Avenger in tense times, but he seemed even more pressured now than in the Skrull-Kree War. "Big information." 

"Say it," said Fury. 

"Here's what the Fire is," said Iron Man. In two words, he told him. 

Fury swore in awe. Val involuntarily backed away. Gabe, Dum Dum, and Jasper flashed back to times like the Betatron Bomb incident, or the HYDRA Death Spore crisis. He seemed to be reacting in much the same way today. 

"Who's got it?" said Fury, all business. 

"I'll give you the name," said Iron Man, "if you'll hook me up with your ESP boys and tell me where I can find him." 

"One of 'em's down," Fury said, "but you can have the other two. Give me the name, Shellhead." 

"Gary Gilbert," said Iron Man. "Alias—and I'm pretty sure of this—Firebrand." 

-M- 

PARKER 

The way it was, Dr. Strange didn't know where I lived. So he sent me to his place in Greenwich, and it took me a couple of hours to get home. Actually, it wouldn't have mattered if it'd only been five minutes. 

I changed clothes in my favorite alleyway, but when I got closer to my house, the old Spidey Sense started going off like a call to battle stations. Didn't bother with the lock on the door; I just flat-handed the thing open. The repair bill would have to go on our monthly rent statement. 

There was nobody inside. Not Gwen, not May, not anybody. I thought for a minute Gwen had left me. There was a note, on typing paper, right on top of the coffee table in the front room that would seem to have confirmed that. 

That is, until I read it. 

It said that my daughter was in safe hands, but my wife was in anything but. And if I ever wanted to see her again, I'd have to come to the top of the Brooklyn Bridge to get her. The last sentence read, "It'll be a pleasure to see you for one last time, Spider-Man." And it was signed, "The Green Goblin." 

I stripped out of my clothes so fast they must've burned up with friction. I was out of the attic window in nothing flat, back in my Spider-Man suit, web-vials fresh and filled, and on my way to the Bridge by web-line. 

Everything I saw seemed to be tinged in red. 

The red of blood, maybe. 

Or, perhaps, the red of Fire. 

To be continued...   
  



	26. Part 26:  He Who Is In Battle Slain

FIRE! 

Part 26 

by DarkMark 

"Hello, Mr. Premier? This is the president. Of the United States." 

"Bojemoi! Of course I know what you are president of. What is happening, Mr. President?" 

"Well, uh, Mr. Premier, I wanted to let you know that there is a rogue super-being, and I do emphasize the word rogue, we don't have any control or authority over him whatsoever, he is not even an American, he's a rogue..." 

"Mr. President. Please." 

"All right, sir. What it, uh, what it amounts to is that this rogue, this, uh, Silver Surfer, he's, uh, headed in a general northeasterly direction from the United States now, as far as we can track him, and, uh..." 

"And what, Mr. President?" 

"And he's headed your way, Mr. Premier." 

"WHAT?" 

"Please, sir. We've got SHIELD on this right now." 

"SHIELD? Better I should have Yuri Brevlov's department deal with him! You cannot even keep your Heli-Carrier afloat!" 

"Mr. Premier, uh, that was a very low, low blow." 

"[Expletive deleted] your mother! What are we supposed to do when he gets here?" 

"Well, Mr. Premier, we hope you'll be able to destroy him. We'll help." 

"You'll help." 

"Exactly, Mr. Premier." 

"With what?" 

"Well, with whatever you can throw at him." 

"Do you expect us to use nuclear weapons on one man?" 

"It might not be such a bad idea, Mr. Premier." 

"This is insanity, Mr. President!" 

"I hate to say it, Mr. Premier, but the way things have been going for the last two weeks, it seems like business as usual." 

"Not here, it is not! Where are your American super-heroes? Why are they not protecting us from this rogue threat?" 

"Well, uh, I tried to get them, Mr. Premier, but, uh, as you might know, they're kind of tied up right now. And, uh, some of the people tying them up are the Titanium Man, the Red Ghost, the Unicorn, the Crimson Dynamo..." 

"If you find any of those diabolical counter-revolutionist slacker defectors, you can have them, Mr. President! But this is not our doing." 

"I'm, uh, glad to hear that, Mr. Premier. Very glad. And as you, uh, know, this Silver Surfer isn't our doing." 

"This is a great relief to me. Is this being capable of destroying Moscow?" 

"I, uh, suppose so, Mr. Premier. Depending on what kind of mood he was in, I understand." 

"Oh." 

"Is that a positive or a negative 'oh', Mr. Premier." 

"That 'oh' signifies that I have had enough, Mr. President. You will stop this being, before he gets to Moscow, or we will stop him ourselves. And we will not be held responsible for collateral damage which may be done in the defense of the Motherland. Is that clear, Mr. President?" 

"Crystal clear, Mr. Premier. And, uh, as soon as we can, uh, free up some super-heroes over here, we'll send them over there to deal with it." 

"How long will that take?" 

"...Regrettably, Mr. Premier, it might take a good long while." 

-M- 

The Hulk was hard enough to control on the Earth plane. Dr. Strange always had his doubts on how his green ally would be when he pulled him through sub-space dimensions. But, thankfully, the incredible being had seen enough sights in space and in other worlds to be somewhat used to it by now. 

The sorceror was surrounded by a glowing force-field, behind which, towed like skiiers on ropes, Clea, the Hulk, and the injured Sub-Mariner, who had flatly insisted on coming, kept up. This was the only way to reach the Surfer in time, before he attacked Russia and possibly started a nuclear war. 

"Hulk not understand," grumbled the goliath. "Why we have to fight surf-man? Isn't he friend?" 

"Yes, Hulk," said Dr. Strange, patiently. "But he is being controlled by another mind, now. He isn't in possession of his own faculties." 

"Huh?" 

"Hulk, my friend," the Sub-Mariner said, his injured arm encased in a metallic exoskeletal device, "do you remember the time in which we fought?" 

"Which time was that?" 

"About four years ago. When you didn't know why you were doing what you were doing?" 

"Oh. That time. Hulk remembers. Hulk thinks so, anyway." 

"Good. Well, this is like that time for the Surfer. Someone else is telling him what to do. He cannot resist them, anymore than you could resist your controller, back then. I, too, know what it feels to be in such a state, for I was once under such command, myself. We have to restrain our comrade Surfer, so that Dr. Strange may free him." 

"What 'restrain' mean, anyway?" 

Clea said, "It means you and Namor have to hold him, Hulk, while Stephen and I try and free his mind." 

"Okay. Does that mean Hulk smashes him?" 

Namor sighed. "If necessary. We want to cure him, not destroy him." 

"Then Hulk will only smash him once." 

"Sound idea," added Dr. Strange, dourly. "Prepare yourselves. We enter the Earth-plane...now!" 

-M- 

It was no small thing to command the mind of a herald of Galactus. But this was no small power controlling the Silver Surfer, indeed. 

Though the Puppet Master didn't know it, his mastery was being backed independently by Mentallo, a telepathic mutant and ex-foe of SHIELD. Gary Gilbert feared that even Philip Masters's power wouldn't be equal to the task, so he put the problem before the Mad Thinker and got the answer within seconds. Mentallo had been easy enough to track down, and needed money, to boot. He didn't mind work-for-hire. 

Still, even while the skyrider of the spaceways soared over the Atlantic in another's thrall, he fought. He fought within himself for control of himself. He could still not break the hold of the puppeteer, and he seethed, knowing it. But Norrin Radd hadn't given up even before Mephisto, and he wasn't about to start it now. 

Altogether, though, he feared he might break free too late. 

He knew the damage he had done to property on America's East Coast, the injuries he had caused, though, thankfully, he had been responsible for no deaths. But he was not sure he could hold himself back from worse destruction than that, when he arrived at the Soviet Union. 

The ones who controlled him wanted him to raze the land before him until he reached a cache of nuclear bombs, and to set them off. 

That, he could not allow. He would even sacrifice his own existence, to prevent it. 

But he did not know he could prevent it. 

The shores of Europe loomed before the Surfer now, in the distance. He would reach the landmass, even at his relatively slow speed, within minutes. And then... 

...but before then, a hole opened in the air itself and four Defenders emerged from it before him. 

The Surfer, thanking his Creator, involuntarily lifted his hands and set off a bolt of the Power Cosmic. 

The bolt struck the Hulk in the chest, staggering him but not downing him. He roared and began to fall towards the sea, but Dr. Strange, muttering a spell, engaged him in a harness of magical energy that bore him aloft. "Remember, Hulk, stop him, don't injure him!" called the magician. 

"RrrrrARRGHHH!" replied the Hulk, approximately. He adjusted to his new aerial status in record time without thinking of it, leaped to the Surfer's vicinity, and uncorked a massive right that sent the silver-skinned hero back over a hundred yards. 

The Sub-Mariner plunged into the depths, felt the renewing power of sea water, and emerged like a missle from an atomic sub. His one good fist was held upright, and he caught the volplaning Surfer under the chin with it. "IMPERIUS REX!" he shouted, resolutely. 

The Surfer, not much damaged, righted himself, grasped Namor, and threw him into the sky. 

"Clea, we have trouble," declared Dr. Strange. 

"You are gifted with understatement, Stephen," replied Clea. 

The Hulk closed with his former ally again and began assaulting the Surfer with tremendous punches and hammer-blows. In response, the Surfer battled back, both with staggering blows that hurt the Hulk and with power-blasts that seared, scarred, and buffeted him. No matter how many times the Hulk was knocked back, he picked himself up, figuratively speaking, and charged back in. Unless you could kill him or knock him out, you couldn't stop him. 

The Surfer didn't intend to knock him out. 

Clea, anticipating his actions, began chanting an improvised spell. 

"As the Faltine's Flames do burn   
And Nameless Ones do mutely cry,   
So baffle now the Surfer's bolts   
And thus confuse his watchful eye!" 

The silver-skinned hand that pointed at the Hulk should have tagged him with a blast so powerful it could penetrate to the very magma beneath the Earth's mantle. Instead, it veered to the left of him, continued on till it struck one of the Austrian Alps, and created some interesting new geography there. 

Taking advantage of the situation, the Hulk hit him. It was probably the best decision all around. 

While the Surfer was still reeling from that, the Sub-Mariner dropped from the skies, good arm leading, and smashed him down from above. Both of them vanished below the waves. The Hulk turned to Dr. Strange. "Fish-man get surf-man good, huh?" 

"I would not count overmuch on that, Hulk—" 

Water geysered up and Namor came flying from it, propelled by a burst of silver power. The Surfer, riding his board, followed. 

Dr. Strange threw himself into the fray. From his hands, there erupted mystic energies of binding force. These bonds, forged by the power of Cyttorak, served to restrain the Surfer for a few seconds. With that bought time, Strange unleashed the power of his amulet. 

"Namor! Hulk! Pin his arms! Hold him...hold him..." barked Strange. Somehow, without questioning, the two obeyed. The Surfer, snarling like a rabid dog, began to make his body glow with terrible force. Sub-Mariner and the Hulk both reacted with pain. But they held tight. 

The light of the Eye of Agomotto bored deep into Norrin Radd's mind. 

Dr. Strange had taken such journeys more than once in his life, most notably when he had to pry the secret of Eternity loose from a comatose Ancient One. This, perhaps, was less strenuous than that battle, but not by much. He sensed the control overwhelming the Surfer's mind, knew the command to chaos it was imposing, but seemed unable, just by a tad, to pry it loose. He drove the power of the Eye on further, seeking to penetrate to the rational, supremely humanist mind that was the Surfer's own when unfettered. 

He felt the presence of Clea beside him, reinforcing him, reassuring him. It eased his burden slightly, but he put his mental and emotional might behind his Eye all the more. This was a fight that had to be won. 

"Strange!" The voice was Namor's. "Strange, we can hold him no longer!" 

"Namor," said the magician in a weary voice, "you must." 

And then came the presence of another in Strange's mind, though how it got there he was powerless to explain. It was not the essence of an enemy, thank the Vishanti. It had power, of a purely telepathic sort. 

Dr. Strange. Let us help.> 

The telepathic voice was unknown to him. Who are you?> he asked. 

James Murray, of the ESP Division of SHIELD. Let us help you with the Surfer.> 

I accept,> replied Strange, who would have accepted help from any shy of the dread Dormammu at the moment. 

He felt the power of another agency buoying him, as if an aide de combat was picking him up from the battlefield and infusing him with new vitality. True, it would be difficult, like lifting an automobile from the ground and turning it on its top. But it could be done. 

It must be done. 

And, in the words of the Tibetans, it would be done. 

The Hulk was roaring something. The Sub-Mariner was screaming something. Even Clea was shouting words of concern at him. 

None of that mattered now. Nothing mattered except what he was doing now. Driving a micron-thin stream of mental / mystic energy beneath the control shield of whoever dominated the Silver Surfer... 

...spreading a disk of thin, hard power beneath it... 

...then, wrenching up with all one's might... 

... 

NORRIN RADD, AWAKEN!> 

... 

"Who has done this to me? By the stars and galaxies in their courses, WHO HAS DONE THIS TO ME?" 

Dr. Strange opened his eyes. 

The Silver Surfer, held in a rough crucifix position by the Sub-Mariner and Hulk, both of whom showed severe burns on their bodies, looked angry, and surprised, but not insane. 

"Surfer," said Dr. Strange, almost exhausted, feeling Clea's arms under his armpits, holding him from falling into the ocean. "You were...dominated..." 

The scion of the spaceways turned his head, gently, both ways, to see the injured Hulk and Namor. "I...caused you this pain?" 

Even the Hulk couldn't make a sound. 

The Surfer's body glowed anew, but not with destructive power this time. Instead, he used the Power Cosmic to touch the bodies of his friends, and to render them healed. The greenish flesh of the Hulk and the pinkish body of Namor were regenerated within seconds, the injury from heat, deadly radiation, and cosmic force gone. 

The two were healed. 

Namor's eyes widened even further. He released the Surfer's arm, then used his own uncovered hand to tear and rip at the metal bindings holding in place the reinforcing prosthetics over his other arm. With a great flex of muscle power, the metal covering exploded. The Sub-Mariner rotated his arm, flexed it, doubled it and straightened it repeatedly. There was no pain. 

"You healed it," said Namor to the Surfer. 

"I could do no less, my friend," said the alien. 

The Hulk finally spoke. "Hulk better now. Surf-man better, too?" 

"Very much better, Hulk. And thank you for my liberation. You, Namor, Strange, and Clea. You have my eternal gratitude, and the debt of the Silver Surfer." 

"I had help," said Stephen Strange, trying to rally. "SHIELD." 

"Stephen," said Clea, pointing to the skies. "Look." 

From one direction, American fighter planes were approaching. From another, Russian MIGs were doing the same. Evidently, nobody was hedging their bets as to whether the Defenders would succeed or not. Given the legal status of the Hulk, Surfer, and Namor, the chance that the planes might attack was uncomfortably high. 

Dr. Strange wearily raised his hands for a transport spell. 

"Do not trouble yourself, Strange," said the Surfer, and raised his own gleaming hand. 

With one flash of white light that almost blinded the pilots of the closest planes, the Defenders were gone. 

That left the American and Russian jet jockeys wondering just what in the hell to tell their home bases, as a result. 

-M- 

Both of the special aircraft the X-Men were using were extremely fast. That went without saying. But they still weren't the first ones on the scene, and Cyclops didn't expect them to be. Their FBI liaison, Amos Fred Duncan, had been contacted by phone and asked to check on the Xavier Mansion. 

When the two X-craft landed on the field just outside the mansion, they could see the FBI and emergency vehicles around the house, and the roadblocks that kept civilians out of the area. Nobody had to speak about the bad vibes they were getting from the scene. Nonetheless, Marvel Girl dug her fingers into Cyclops's arm as the two of them debarked from the plane. 

Scott and Jean were flanked by Iceman, Beast, Angel, Mimic, Magnetica, Havok, and Banshee. The nine of them waited for a long moment, watching the cops approach them. 

"Should we go in now?" asked Mimic. 

"Wait till the FBI escorts us," said Cyclops. 

"No way," Magnetica said, and sauntered towards the mansion herself. 

"Lor—Magnetica, stop!" called Havok, authoritatively. She didn't. Havok ran after her. That was it. The remainder of both X-Men teams surged forward. To their credit, the FBI guys didn't wave guns to try and stop them. 

One of the Feds did show them a badge. "Ladies, gentlemen, please. I'm Agent Carey. Mr. Duncan has asked me to have you wait out here for a moment, if you will." 

"Tell Agent Duncan," said the Beast in a reasonable tone, "that we appreciate his solicitude, and you tried valiantly to hold the line, in the manner of Horatius at the bridge." He reached out his huge hands, grasped the man around the middle, and set him to the side. The other eight followed him in a rough wedge formation. 

They got as far as the foyer when a voice most of them knew called, "Hold it. Right there." 

Banshee raised his yellow-gloved hand. "Agent Duncan. 'Tis fair meetin' ya, sir." 

"Likewise, Banshee," said Duncan, quietly. The agent was a 50-something, balding blonde man in a brown suit. Professor Xavier had made contact with him back in 1962, and had opened Project Mutant with him, the program that led to the recruitment of the X-Men. From that time to this, he had been a sympathizer with their cause and their official government liaison. But he didn't look very upbeat today. None of the nine mutants seemed to want to ask why. 

Havok took the lead. "Mr. Duncan. Please, tell us." 

Duncan took a long breath. "Perhaps the ladies would like to sit down first." 

"Perhaps the ladies wouldn't!" burst out Marvel Girl. "Tell us right now! What's happened to the professor?" 

With a grim expression, Duncan motioned them into the next room. They followed him. 

The lot of them stopped as soon as they filed through the doorway. Jean's hand went to her mouth. Cyclops's mouth dropped open. Havok looked as though someone had run a cat-of-nine-tails across his back. Lorna Dane dropped to her knees. The others had individual reactions of much the same timbre. 

Within the room were several lab techs and FBI cops, interrupted in whatever scientific or criminological duties they had been undertaking. They didn't matter, to the X-Men. What did matter were the two forms under dropcloths on the floor, and the wheelchair, which was on its side with one wheel practically demolished. 

There were bloodstains on the floor near the shrouded forms. 

Duncan spoke quietly. "Apparently Professor Xavier admitted him without resistance. Apparently. It must have gone quickly, very, very quickly. The Professor..." 

"Stop it!" Jean shrieked, clenching her hands into fists. 

"Jean," said Cyclops, and took her from behind by the shoulders. "I..." 

Iceman broke the silence. "Go on, Agent Duncan." 

The agent drew a deep breath. "Professor Xavier took it through the heart. It was a spoke from his own wheelchair. The other one is Erik Magnus Lensherr, alias Magneto. From what we can tell without an autopsy, he died from a cerebral hemorrhage. Death for both of them must have been instantaneous, or damned near it. 

"That's all I can say. My friends...I'm very sorry." 

One of the other agents on the scene cleared his throat. "Ah, Mr. Duncan..." 

"Yes, Lyle. I have to tell you all that you must wait in the other areas of the mansion. We don't want the scene any more contaminated than it is now." 

Mimic spoke up, almost in rage. "To hell with that! To hell with you! That's the Professor, my God, that's the Professor, and we're..." 

"Mimic, SHUT UP." Havok whirled on his teammate and nailed him with his eyes. Cal Rankin's mouth opened, but no words came from it. After a couple of seconds, he stopped trying and sagged there. The Banshee touched him on the shoulders, maintaining his own silence. 

Without saying a word, Cyclops and Havok, taking Jean and Lorna with them, left the room and the others followed. There was only one place to go that would serve. It was soundproofed and shielded from the rest of the mansion, and without its deadly devices being activated, it was just another very large room. 

Havok keyed in the proper sequence of numbers to open the door to the Danger Room, and all nine of them went in. The Beast closed the door after them. 

As soon as it was locked, each of them, individually, broke down in tears. 

-M- 

Dr. Doom looked upon his work, and saw that it was good. 

Everywhere, as the smoke lifted, he saw testimonies to his handiwork. Pieces of competitors. Pieces of enemies. A few high-tech items which briefly intrigued him, such as the disconnected end of one of Dr. Octopus's metal arms. From what he could see, the gambit had been successful. That meant everything. 

But the bodies of the accursed Four had to be found. Nothing less would do. If need be, he'd take blood samples from every inch of this field, type them with his own equipment in Latveria, and verify the deaths of Richards, his wife, John Storm, and Benjamin Grimm. 

Nothing less would do. Richards, the usurper, the man who had undoubtedly altered his flawless figurings that day in the past, the very day he tried to use his Communications Chair to contact the next world. 

The very day it had blown up, and scarred the face of Victor Von Doom beyond repair. 

That had begun their deadly rivalry, which had lasted more than thirty years. But now, Doom was triumphant. His very persistence, his unbending will of iron, and his superior intellect had brought him to this point. Not only had he destroyed Richards and his crew, but the irritant Daredevil, who had thwarted him twice before–once, even, when Doom had used Ovoid technology to switch bodies with him—and the woman known as the Black Widow, plus the Inhumans, who were allies to the Four and thus needs be dealt with. The deaths of the so-called Frightful Four and Sinister Six were only collateral benefits. It amused Doom that the American military had done some of the work for him, in that regard. 

From this point, he could devote himself to reaping the benefits of the chaos wrought in America for himself. It would be a simple thing to find Gilbert and eliminate him. With the West in his hands, the East would not be far behind. 

The triumph should have been complete. 

But, for some unknown reason, Doom thought he sensed someone watching him. 

-M- 

"He killed my daddy! He killed my daddy!" 

"Franklin," said Agatha Harkness, not terribly convincingly, as Franklin Richards tried to grasp the TV set with both of his short arms. 

"He killed my daddy, and my mommy, and Uncle Johnny, an'...an' uncle Ben! I'm gonna kill him, Miss Agatha! I'm gonna kill HIM!" 

On the screen, Franklin saw the face of Dr. Doom, caught in a chance shot from wherever the camera was, filling the screen. The cloaked and armored man seemed to be smiling. 

The fury and anguish in Franklin's soul were a dormant H-Bomb, and Doom's smile seemed to be the trigger to ignite it. 

A strange thing occurred. Franklin seemed to feel his being extending from his body into the TV set, running along the path of transmission back to its source, and ending at the battle site being pictured, all at the speed of light, or near it. 

He didn't resist it a bit. 

-M- 

The breeze blowing in from the West was not enough to billow away the smoke from the explosion. Doom raised his metal-covered hands, intending to use powerful exhaust blowers to disperse it. 

Before he started, he was occupied with something else. Literally. 

A presence in his body and brain, inserted there without his bidding it, without his perceiving its entry, and without mercy. 

Doom gasped. His hands went to his throat, trying to loosen the armor there. His very body was expanding, pressing against the padded metal that was his refuge and shield. He tried to release the catches that would free him of the constricting armor, but his hands would not obey. They were too ponderous and slow. 

His mind was still intact. 

Despite himself, he knew terror. 

That was only an instant before meat and matter exploded through the eye- and nose-slits in Doom's armor, through his mouth, through whatever minute openings there were in his metal suit. With it came blood. Lots of it. 

The entire process took only a few seconds. When it was done, not much remained within the armor except liquid and bone fragments. The metal was very hot to the touch. 

The great armored suit swayed, tipped over backwards, and fell with a great clang. 

It stayed there, unmoving. 

It remained there as a host of figures emerged from the smoke. One of them burst into flame, commanded the smoke with his own power, and dispersed it, for the most part. After he had done it, he regretted it. 

Reed and Sue Richards and Ben Grimm stood beside the Torch. Seeing what was on the ground, Sue covered her eyes and leaned against Reed. Johnny Storm had trouble keeping himself from vomiting. He managed to control himself, then said, "Is that...him?" 

"It can't be anyone else," said Reed. "I knew he'd have a hand in this, somehow." 

"Maybe it's a robot," breathed the Torch. "Or an android. Or..." 

"Or, nothin'," said the Thing. "I smelled enough corpses in the War, Torchy. I know the scent. That's a dead body. That's Dr. Doom." 

Others gathered beside them. Daredevil, the Black Widow, Black Bolt, Crystal, Karnak, Gorgon, Medusa, and Triton. "That's him, then?" said Daredevil, noting with his Radar Sense and other enhanced senses that yes, there were pieces of a human body inside the armor, and no, they couldn't be put back together again. "He was behind this all?" 

Medusa shielded Crystal's eyes. Gorgon said, "We Inhumans never faced him. But from what Reed Richards has told us, from the pictures we have seen in your media, this can be no other. Is the war finished, now?" 

Reed shook his head. "I don't know, Gorgon. We still can't say whether Doom was behind this entire operation, or just taking advantage of it. The only thing we can say with certainty is that he paid for participation with his life." 

"Bojemoi," breathed the Black Widow. "Even in Russia, the name of Dr. Doom was known and feared." 

Triton said, "One mystery, at least, we can solve. What is it that made you shield us with your force field, an instant before the blast, Mrs. Richards?" 

Without taking her face from Reed's chest, Sue mumbled, "There was a voice in my mind. It sounded like Agatha Harkness. It told me to put the shields up, and I did. I didn't...have a chance...to..." 

"To shield the others," finished Medusa. 

"Medusa, take me away," begged Crystal. 

"As soon as we may, sister," said Medusa. "As soon as we may." 

Karnak shook his head. "So much death, paid for by the death of one man. Even if that man is Doom, the scales are hardly balanced." 

"Got news for ya, short stuff," the Thing answered. "In a war, they ain't never balanced." 

Reed took a communicator wafer from his belt, found it still functional, and put in a call to the White House. He reported only as much as he had to. The person on the other end asked him to remain there until FEMA personnel arrived. 

The heroes, who were the only survivors, took themselves to a part of the field where there was less death than the rest of it, and waited. 

-M- 

It didn't take long, objectively, for Franklin Richards to return from the place he had just been. It was like he'd seen his Daddy do so many times: stretching out, then pulling back. He half-perceived some of the darkness and odd patterns on the way back, but ignored them as much as he could. They were unsettling. 

Then he was seeing out of his own eyes again, feeling his own body around him, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his nose buried against the television set. Mom hated it when he did that, and always made him get a paper towel and Windex to clean it off. 

Franklin didn't mind that, now. At least he knew his mom was okay, and would come back home. 

Miss Agatha was standing beside him. He looked up at her. She stared down at him, impassively, waiting for a response. 

"Aunt Agatha," he said. "I saw Mommy, Daddy, Uncle Johnny, and uncle Ben. They're all right!" 

"Very good, child," said Agatha. 

"But...I did something. The bad man who tried to kill Mommy and Daddy...I..." 

"You killed him, Franklin," said Agatha, soothingly. "You just killed him." 

"Yeah," said Franklin, wonderingly. Then he said, "Did I do good?" 

She took him in her arms. "You did very good, Franklin," she said. "Very, very good indeed." 

-M- 

Nick Fury and his top squad were in the New Jersey SHIELD office, in a shimmed-up version of the ESP Chamber. Not much of the brain-amplifying equipment could be brought there from the fallen Heli-Carrier, and only two psychics remained: Jim Murray and Carla Casteel. The third, Jacob LeBrun, had been rendered comatose from the Carrier's crash. Thankfully, the two remaining ones had been able to get aid to Dr. Strange when he needed it most. 

Murray, reclining on a lounger seat with a complex apparatus over his cranium and eyes, spoke. "They've disappeared. I can't track them anymore." 

"Disappeared?" Fury lit a match with the end of his thumb and applied it to a cold cheroot in his mouth. "Explain, Murray." 

"Dr. Strange was going to use his magic to take them somewhere else," said Murray. "Instead, the Silver Surfer used his power. They don't appear to be anywhere I can sense them." 

Val said, "What about you, Casteel? What's your perception?" 

The redhaired woman, lying on another seat behind Murray, said, "I concur, Agent de Fontaine. All parties involved vanished from our scan capacity. We know that Strange and the Surfer can jump between dimensions, so they must've done that." 

"A feat you, yourself, achieved during the Yellow Claw case, sir, with the aid of the transportation vest," Sitwell put in. 

"Thanks for noticin', Jasp," answered Fury. "Okay, you two, off of that. Can you still get a line on Iron Man, if you have to?" 

"I'd say roger that," Murray reported. "But we don't do probes on him, just telepathy." 

"That's all I want," said Fury. "Right now, I want both of ya to fan out as far as ya can over the country, and track Gary Gilbert. Once you find him, and you will find him, believe it, ya tell me, and ya tell Iron Man, in that order. Understood?" 

"Understood, colonel," said Murray. 

"Agreed," said Casteel. 

"Me, I got somethin' to do," Fury said, and zipped up his neoprene suit from chest to neck. 

Gabe Jones, watching, said, "Where you going, Nick?" 

Fury smiled. "Got a little time to myself. Think I'll have a little fun." 

-M- 

Archie McCown and Ake Harmon were more than a little jittery in private these days, but they played it cool when they were dealing with AIM's supply men. The hatbox-headed guys had invited the two revolutionaries to a safe house for the weapons deal the two had requested. Archie and Ake were relieved to know that the delivery had already been made. AIM had that much confidence in their ability to pay. 

With as much nonchalance as he could muster, Ake, in shades, handed over a suitcase full of cash. The AIM squad commander took it, scanned the locks with a hand-held device, popped it open, rifled through the bills, and shut it again. "Good," he nodded. "Good." 

"Pleasure doin' business with ya," said Archie. "Man, if we'd known about you a few years earlier, the Revolution would'a been on the rails with a lot less trouble." 

"AIM aims to please," said the guy in the yellow suit. It was hard to tell if he said it with a straight face, as most of his face was covered and not much of his eyes could be seen behind the grillwork in his helmet-mask. 

Ake smiled, inwardly. No matter how many times Advanced Idea Mechanics hatched plots to smash SHIELD and conquer the world, at base, they were merchants. If you needed something, all you had to do was come up with the appropriate cash and AIM would build it for you. If it could be built. 

Right now, the two of them had paid for another cache of weapons like the one that had taken down that pig SHIELD agent in New York. The guns they'd bought were already in the hands of revos in Washington State. They'd supplied their brothers in California, Texas, and Michigan already, and Florida was champing at the bit. But until Gary forwarded them some more money, or until the brothers down in Gatorland came up with their own cash, that was going to have to wait. 

The main thing was, the pig was gonna die. If these AIMers didn't know they were part of the pig, that was their never-mind. Ake Harmon watched out for himself first, and the Revolution second. These box-headed mercenaries were selling them the bullets with which to equip their own firing squad. Well, it wasn't quite Lenin, but it'd work in a pinch. 

"Come again, when you need more," said the commander. "We have more." 

"We'll keep that in mind," said Archie. 

He had more to say than that. But he was interrupted by an explosion. 

The door, which had been reinforced with titanium steel, was blown off its freaking hinges. The ten AIM guys within, plus Archie and Ake, scattered from the impact. The door imbedded itself partway into the opposite wall. 

A guy with an eyepatch, wearing a black skin-tight suit, vaulted into the room. He was armed, he looked old and Establishment, and Archie thought he seemed like the type who could take on the whole Green Bay Packers lineup and come out on top. 

"Fury," snapped one AIM guy, bringing his weapon to bear. "Kill him." 

The guy called Fury let off a round that hit the chest of the guy who'd just given the order. It sent off blue-white sparks where it touched him. The AIM agent cried out, jerking spasmodically, and dropped, first to his knees, then on his face. Ake thought the honky in the eyepatch had some kind of stun-gun. That was all right. Ake had a gun of the more conventional kind. 

Another AIM guy grabbed something from a pouch in his uniform and threw it at Fury. Archie had seen a demonstration of it before. It was a fast-hardening gel that would wrap itself around any target it struck and solidify within instants, preventing its quarry from moving. On its present trajectory, it was headed straight for Fury's noggin. 

But Fury simply held up his wrist, triggered some kind of mechanism in a wrist-band he wore, and started something humming. The goo splattered across an unseen something that looked as flat and wide in diameter as a pizza pan, and stayed there, forming what amounted to a shield on Fury's arm. Ake thought of Captain America. That was before Fury hit the floor, rolled, kicked the attacker solidly in the chest, probably broke something there, and sent him down. The AIM agent wasn't coming up after that for a long time. 

Ake had grown up watching Gunsmoke and had gotten his first gun at age 12. He'd practiced a quick draw with it from then till now, and he was pretty confident in his ability to outspeed anybody he faced when he slapped leather. Not that many people he faced were ready for such a confrontation, but it still made him feel like Matt Dillon or Paladin when he did it. He whipped out the .38 he carried just for insurance and was sure he could tag Captain Eyepatch with it. 

Captain Eyepatch did a trick shot around his own side and shot the gun out of Ake's hand. Even as he grabbed his mitt in pain and swore a blue streak, Ake had to admire the guy's ability. If they won this bit and the honky mofo was still alive, he was gonna make the guy show him just how he did that thing. 

Fury faced three AIM agents in a row, all of whom had their blasters out. He pulled what looked like a truncheon from his weapons vest, yanked out both ends of it, and extended it to a weapon over three feet long. This he slammed against the upper chests of all three men, knocking them back against the wall. From there, he used the rod like Little John used his staff in a Robin Hood flick, cracking the yellow-suited guys upside their helmeted heads or jamming it hard into their bellies. The threesome weren't able to fight after Fury was done with them. 

That left five other AIM agents, plus Ake and Archie. Archie was hiding behind a desk. The other AIM men had finally got presence of mind enough to lay down a barrage of fire in Fury's direction. Fury ducked and rolled again, grabbed one of the fallen AIM men, and used him as a human shield. The guy took the projectiles meant for Fury and died seconds afterward. 

In the meantime, Fury took another thing from his weapons vest. It looked round and had an indented place in one area. Fury thumbed that, pitched it at the ceiling, saw it bounce off and head for the AIM quintet, and ducked behind his shield of fallen bad guys. 

The impact grenade blasted all five AIM men into dreamland. 

Nick Fury stood up, his back to both Ake and Archie, and took off his weapons vest in leisurely fashion. Archie, wearing soft-soled shoes, began creeping towards the door. "Ah-ah," said Nick, not turning around. 

Archie froze. 

Ake stood up. "Okay, man. Tell me who the hell you are, and what the hell business you got crashin' our party." 

Slowly, the man turned. "Nick Fury. Colonel. Agent A-1 of SHIELD. How's that for starters, buttercup?" 

"Fury. Oh, god," whispered Archie. "Ake. We gotta get out of here." 

Weighing the balance of fighting the legendary head of SHIELD, trying to flee, or staying where he was, Ake decided to try and flee. Let Eyepatch be satisfied with Archie. Ake jumped over a fallen chair and sprinted for the doorway. He'd outrun enough cops, bullies, drug dealers, and dogs when he was growing up, and if he couldn't make one damn doorway, Ake was gonna turn in his Keds. 

A black-clad arm grabbed him by the back of his coat and slammed him against the wall. Fury was in Ake's face, and he didn't look happy. "I took my weapons off," said Nick. "Wanna take your best shot?" 

Ake tried to bring up his knee. 

Archie was watching, but he still couldn't see what happened fast enough. All he knew was that Ake cried out in pain, and flew from one side of the room to the opposite wall, where he crashed and slid down it, unconscious. 

Now Eyepatch Guy was turning towards Archie. Everything in McCown's head told his legs to run. 

"Don't run," said Fury. 

"Wouldn't think of it," Archie assured him. 

"You're gonna tell me where those shipments of AIM weapons been goin'," said Fury, casually.   
"You've got that info, right?" 

"I—" 

Archie found himself slammed up against the wall, with both of Fury's hands holding him up by the collar and the man's face so close to him he could smell his sweat. He tried closing his eyes, turning his head away from that face, but he couldn't manage it. 

"Lissen, you," said Fury, in cold tones. "I got a man in sick bay who almost got his arm cut off because of one of those guns you brokered. He almost died. He ain't outta the woods yet. Think that makes me feel good about you? Answer me, Junior!" 

"N-no," gasped Archie. "No!" 

"Well. Sounds like we're ready to communicate, kid. Talk!" 

"You mean, you mean, about this one?" 

"Good as any place to start." 

"It. Uh. It went to Seattle." 

"Where in Seattle?" 

"I think to the SAVI guys. I don't know. We just paid for it." 

"I want more!" Fury roared at him while pressing him harder against the wall. 

"I haven't got any more!" Archie was about to wet himself. "Gilbert gave us the money. That's all I know. Gilbert gave us the money." 

"Gary Gilbert?" 

"Yeah. Gary Gilbert. Look, I'm sorry, man." 

"Oh, I can tell that. I can tell you're so damn sorry about supplyin' weapons that can wipe out a whole police force to a buncha nuts who wanna smash America. I can just see how bad you feel about givin' somebody the gun that damn near killed Clay Quatermain. And you know what I'm gonna do about that, buddy? Do you know what I'm gonna do about that?" 

Archie squeaked, "What?" 

He was spared from knowing the answer by a strange buzz from Fury's wristband. 

"'Scuse me," said Fury. He let Archie fall down the wall, planted his boot on his chest to make sure he didn't go anywhere, and opened the communicator on his wristband. "Fury." 

"Colonel," came the voice of Jasper Sitwell. "They've tracked Gilbert. Or at least we think they've tracked him." 

"Where?" 

Sitwell told him. After a second's pause, Fury said, "Tell the president. Get SHIELD jets in the air now. I want that scumbag brought down before he goes another mile." 

"Yes, sir." 

"But tell Iron Man first." 

"I think he may know already, sir." 

"What?" 

"The ESPers tracked Iron Man in the same general area." 

"Great. Scramble those jets. I'll be there in a minute. Out." Fury closed the connection. Then he buried his hand in Archie's shirtfront and yanked him onto his feet. "Come with me," he said. 

Archie had no intention of disobeying. "How'd you find out where we were?" he said as he followed Fury. 

"We're SHIELD." 

"Oh." Archie paused. "You, uh, thought we were important enough for you to come after yourself?" 

"Hell, no. This was just recreation." 

-M- 

As a man of science, Iron Man didn't particularly prefer getting messages by telepathy. But there were sometimes when it just couldn't be avoided. 

Attention, Iron Man,> came the voice in his mind. This is James Murray of SHIELD's ESP Division. I have information.> 

Go ahead,> responded Iron Man. But keep out of my brain, otherwise.> 

Understood, sir,> came the response. We've tracked Gary Gilbert in your vicinity.> 

Where?> 

The ESPer gave Iron Man a mental fix on the location. It was better than an electronic map readout. The tracking devices in his armor were leading him towards the sort of plane Gilbert had supplied from AIM, but the SHIELD group concreted the info. 

Thanks,> thought Iron Man. Can you help?> 

Negative,> sent Murray. We can sense him, but he's too far out of range to do anything else.> 

Wish me luck, then,> Iron Man replied. I'm going in.> 

Godspeed, sir,> sent Murray, tensely. Godspeed.> 

The golden Avenger corrected his course just a bit, poured more power into his jets, and trained his sensors on the target somewhere before him. 

It was time to jump into the fire. 

To be continued...   



	27. Part 27:  Tinderbox

FIRE! 

Part 27 

by DarkMark 

Martial law had already been declared in some big cities across the United States, not that it seemed to help much. 

Revolutionaries, some of them armed with AIM weaponry, battled cops and National Guardsmen. Casualties rose on both sides. Kent State was a sneeze compared to what was going on. 

Fidel Castro called up Leonid Breshnev and begged him to use nukes against the Americans. Breshnev replied that if he didn't shut up, he'd be the first to feel them. Fidel hung up, sighed, looked towards Miami, and hoped for the best. 

In Vietnam, Ho Chi Minh stepped up attacks against the South and their American allies. The embattled defenders fought back, even, in some cases, saying to hell with it and striking back into Laos and the North itself. 

The European intelligentsia debated the debacle in salons, rethought the existential imperative of superheroes, and made plans to write stage productions about the whole thing once it was over. It was agreed that the part of the Hulk would have to be played by a woman. 

Mao Tse-Tung remained above the conflict, waiting to see what realignment of power would come after America's crisis. The Prime Minister of Israel offered what help she could, but her nation had its own troubles. Various Arab nations watched the conflict eagerly, wondering if a great prop was about to be knocked out from below their enemy. 

Secretly, the president of the United States pressed some very covert associates of his, who usually wore crimson hoods, for information. They responded that they didn't know a hell of a lot more than he did. He broke off the call and erased the tape over and over again. 

And everybody waited for the next act in the play. 

-M- 

PARKER 

So. Let me tell you kids something about the Green Goblin. 

He was really Norman Osborn, a chemical company owner who had a larcenous streak, originally, as well as a brilliant mind and a son named Harry, who turned out to be one of my best friends and my roomie. Norman got his mind warped, and maybe his intelligence and strength increased, in a chemical accident. That made him think of turning to crime, of making another identity for himself, and, well, becoming the Green Goblin. Sure, it sounds far-fetched to me, too. But who am I to say? I spent ten years running around in blue and red long underwear, in public. 

I don't know that the Goblin was the strongest or physically the deadliest bad guy I ever faced. Lots of them outdid him in the strength department, and Doc Ock was more brilliant, by a sight. But the Goblin had something more than the rest. Maybe it was incipient madness. I don't know. After I found out who he was, I never faced him without feeling a chill. 

Anyway. The Goblin kept his i.d. secret from me and everyone else, and we fought four times before the main event. That was the time he learned that Spider-Man was yours truly, Peter Parker, trailed me to my house, and captured me. He unmasked in front of me, and it was only by reminding him of his son Harry and prompting him to tell me how he got green and goblinish that I bought enough time to break free and fight him. 

But even that wouldn't have been enough if he hadn't been shocked by electricity and chemicals in the fight. That gave him amnesia about everything since the accident that gave him the mind and strength of the Goblin. I found out he wasn't faking it, and I got Osborn out of the flaming wreck of the place we'd fought in. For a long time afterward, Norman was one of my biggest boosters, and a better dad to Harry. 

Then he started having flashbacks. 

A couple of years after he'd stopped being the Goblin, Osborn relapsed, remembered his past, and tried to lure me into a trap. He used psychedelic pumpkins, loaded with a gas that was related somehow to LSD. I managed to spring the trap, shoved one of the pumpkins under his nose, and got him to forget about being the Goblin again. He went back to being plain old Norman Osborn. 

But when Harry dropped acid himself, and not from any psychedelic pumpkin, the strain of learning it turned Norman back into the Goblin again. Deja vu all over again, the third time in a row. I managed to bring him back to normal again and made him forget his Goblinhood. 

As you might have guessed, Norman's amnesia was in no way permanent. Every few years, he'd regain his memory, and I had to find a way of stopping him. He knew who I was, and not only could he threaten me, but everyone I cared about. Everyone I was related to. He'd also made it very clear that he'd do just that, to get to me. 

Why didn't I kill him? Because I wasn't a killer. Pure and simple. Spider-Man was a vigilante, not a murderer. No blood was ever going to be on my hands. Besides, Norman Osborn was the father of my best friend. He was also a very good man, when he wasn't being the Goblin. But there's only so much Dr. Jekyll you can count on, when there's a Mr. Hyde lurking under the surface. I'm not talking about the guy Thor fought, either. 

But right now that morality of mine was about to be tested in the crucible. The Goblin wanted it that way. He'd taken Gwen, and he and I knew that one of us probably wasn't going to make it out of what was about to come down. 

I promised myself that, if there was a way, I'd spare his life. Provided I could beat him. 

But I couldn't promise myself that I could find a way. 

I just knew that there was no other way out. 

That was all I could think about, all the way to the Brooklyn Bridge. 

That, and Gwen. 

-M- 

Outside the cathedral, cops and emergency workers had massed, and the Falcon and Sharon Carter were being treated for their wounds on the spot. But both of them refused to be taken to the hospital. Falc had even tried getting up from the stretcher on which he was placed, with Redwing circling above him, watchfully. He managed about three steps, and collapsed. 

"Cap," the Falcon muttered as the ambulance boys got him on the stretcher and strapped him in. "What's happening to Cap?" 

The head of the emergency team nodded, and the crew finally bundled both Falc and Sharon into the ambulance. The Falcon was yelling with what little volume he could summon, telling them to put him back. Sharon was crying, but her tears were not from pain. 

The ambulance pulled out, and the red-winged falcon above followed. 

A few of the cops had tried to penetrate further into the cathedral. But they ran into some of the Dust of Death scattered by the Red Skull. The policemen behind them saw each face of the men in front wither, turn red, and become skull-like instants before they fell. The man in charge told the squad to pull back, and got on the horn to the commissioner. The commissioner tried to contact the Fantastic Four and the Avengers, but they were out. SHIELD wasn't much help. FEMA said they'd get back to him with a chemical weapons team. But, so far, it hadn't happened. Maybe because there wasn't enough time. 

There were two helicopters circling the upper stories and spire of the cathedral, both equipped with sharpshooters, but no clear shots could be gotten as of yet. Whenever the battling Captain America and Red Skull got near a window, their positions changed too quickly. The Commish had made it clear: anybody who fired on Captain America was going to hear about it for the rest of his life. And none of it would be good, or conducive to further employment. 

Within, Cap and the Skull, both bloodied, had separated. Neither was within range of a window, and both were breathing very, very hard. The hate that ran between them in a circuit, if converted to electricity, could have powered the Bronx for a fortnight. 

"Why, Skull?" said Cap, in a low voice. "Why?" 

"Why, Captain?" replied the Skull, breathing deeply. "Because it is finally, finally, the end of our age. Is that impossible for you to see?" 

"I see nothing but a disease I'm sworn to eradicate," Cap replied. "The disease of Naziism." 

Leaning against the wall, the Skull smiled. "Ah. But do you not see, Captain? That is a disease you will never wipe out. Naziism is the Strength of Man. The will to be strong, to conquer, to dominate. The very will that led your pioneers to conquer this country, to subdue its inferior races—" 

"Shut your mouth, Skull! I'm warning you." 

"Warning me?" The Nazi laughed. "Of what? How much of your history do you really know, Captain? If your Red Indians wrote your history books, or the Chinese immigrants, or the schwartzes whom you took as slaves, the ones who are now at your throats, or even the damnable Jews...do you think they would read in the same fashion? Those races are rising up against you now, Captain. And America is too weak to consider the final solution. That is because you have no strength." 

For answer, Cap leapt forward and smashed the Skull across the room. He leaped upon his foe, shield pressed against the Skull's windpipe. But the crimson Nazi doubled his legs, put his feet against the crusader's chest, and thrust him to the other side of the room. Cap impacted against the wall, hard. It was difficult not to underestimate the Skull's own physical strength. 

"No strength," said the Skull, between bloodied lips. 

"You've felt this strength before, Skull," said Cap, rallying. "You've felt it every time we've met, from the Forties till today. It's the strength of America, Skull. The strength of democracy, of compassion, of the ability to recognize our mistakes and strive to correct them. Our history's there, all right. We've made as many blunders as any other nation. But none of those minorities, those 'inferiors', as you call them, are trying to leave. Every one of them knows of the greatness of America, of its freedom and opportunity. Despite whatever disadvantages they may have here, they're staying, and fighting for their rights. And I stand with them. I've met the ones you spoke of...the Indians, the Asians, the blacks, and yes, the Jews. Every one of them has accepted me as a brother. None of them rejected me for being a white man, a Christian, or an American. All right, maybe it is because I'm called Captain America. But that name means a lot, Skull. It stands for a lot. And it'll always stand for something better than yours. No matter what happens today, it'll always stand." 

"Hah!" The Skull spread his arms against the wall behind him, steadying himself. "Oh, Captain, you truly amuse me. Look at us. Thesis and antithesis. Each of us was no more than a symbol, Captain. A symbol our governments created to spur on the ones who fought for them. Did you know there were fiction magazines devoted to my exploits in the Fatherland, Captain? Not unlike your cheap pamphlets of colored paper over here, fictionalizing your battles. The Red Skull was their hero, Captain. He was the fearsome foe of the enemies of the Reich, the upholder of truth, justice, and the Aryan way, the only one strong enough to stand against the damnable traitor, Hauptmann Amerika, who slaughtered the flower of Deutschland's youth! That was what I was, Captain America. That is what I am. I am no less a hero than you. 

"Do you think I am innocent of anything the Reich did? I shot down partisans and Allied soldiers. I tortured captives. I supervised operations, at times, in a concentration camp. My hands are as red as my skull, Captain. I would do it again. If I triumph, I will." 

"You will never triumph." Cap stated it flatly and without possibility of rebuttal. "I will die preventing that." 

"Perhaps I already have, Captain," the Skull asserted. "Do you not see the role Fate has assigned to us? When each of us was gone, slumbering away for two decades, our parts were not unfilled. Understudies took your costume, your identity, and a substitute shield. And was it long before a new Red Skull arose, this time created by the Russians, who learned the advantage of having such a symbol of their own? Then the ersatz Captains fell, and with him, the ersatz Skull, for which he may be grateful. If I had located him, the death I would have given him even Hell would shudder to imagine. With no Captain America, there was no need of a Red Skull. 

"And then, you returned, thawed from a block of ice. You resumed your crusade against the enemies of a new era. But what of myself? Less than two years after your resurrection, I rose as well. We resumed business, Captain. And what a business it was." 

"You lost every time, Skull." 

"Did I? I survived. In my own way, I thrived. Fate would not let me go, Captain. It would not let me die. Not, perhaps, until you die yourself. Can you not see it? We have been thrown together, as gladiators for the gods. The only way to break this loop of Fate and Time, Captain, is if we perish together. Can you not see that, Captain? Can you remain so ignorant of that, at last?" 

For once, Captain America was silent. 

"You see my point, Captain," the Skull said, quietly. 

"All I see is a devil who can cite Scripture," Cap replied. 

"Then let me show you a bit of the world below, my friend," said the Skull. "Or, perhaps, only tell you about it. Within this cathedral, at its lowest level, is an incendiary device." 

"A fire bomb!" Cap tensed into action. 

"Do not worry yourself," said the Skull. "Less time remains than you would need to reach it. No man remains alive in this structure, other than ourselves. Within seconds, no man will be alive in it at all. I have taken the opportunity to retire us both from battle, Captain. The conflict is ended. Farewell." 

Before he got out the last syllable, the Skull felt Captain America's hands at his throat. The power of the American Avenger smashed them both through a wooden wall, tumbled them over and over, crashed their heads and upper bodies through a window. 

The sharpshooters, the newscopter camera crews, and all in a position to see it below saw their struggling forms. 

The Skull bit Captain America's hand. In his teeth were secreted elements of the Dust of Death. Cap felt the flesh of his face beginning to tighten. 

Shield on his good right arm, the sentinel of World War II gave a mighty effort, felt vertebrae separate, and heard the Skull's neck snap. 

"For America," Cap whispered. 

Then both of them overbalanced, tumbled through the broken window, and began to plummet towards the crowd below. Their arrival was anticipated by screams and scattering. 

They didn't have a chance to hit before the cathedral exploded. 

-M- 

The Battle of Atlanta had been won. The Avengers were on the winning side. No lives had been lost and very little blood had been shed. That was the good part. 

The bad part was that the airport had been torn to smithereens, for the most part, and all the air traffic was going to have to be rerouted for a good long while. But people were, if not totally accepting of the carnage that super-hero / super-villain fights created, at least resigned to it. Even though Tony Stark paid for a lot of it, the damage still raised taxes exponentially. Plus there was the bringdown of adjoining property values, the danger of people being hurt by wreckage at the sites and so forth... 

...but that was just part of the game. 

Hawkeye looked tired, and was. Hank and Jan Pym were beside him. They were coordinating mop-up operations. The Masters of Evil had to be disarmed, neutralized, placed in special lockdown, and then Con Aired to Ryker's Island. In many cases, that meant they had to be sedated until they got back to Ryker's super-cells. They'd gotten used to the drill by now. 

"Gents," Clint said, "the operation has been a success." 

Ant-Man, at full size, smiled. "Ready for some of that old Avengers Assembling?" 

"Let's leave that out for now, Hank," said the Wasp, also full-sized. "The crew is too tired right now." 

"They ain't the only ones." Hawkeye leaned on his bow like a walking-staff. Not too far off on the asphalt, he saw the lead-wrapped form of the Radioactive Man, the handcuffed Melter, the Porcupine stripped down to his underwear and similarly cuffed, and a few other malefactors. "Think this is the end of it, then?" 

"Well, Kang the Conqueror hasn't jumped us in the last few minutes," opined Hank, "so, yeah, I'd guess we're safe for now." 

"The Kree-Skrull War, the Olympus War, and now this," sighed the Wasp. "Even if I wasn't in on the first one and much of the second, it's frazzling. Like my hair in this damp." 

"Your hair's fine, Waspie," said Clint. He looked in the other direction, where Thor, Hercules, and the Asgardians were standing guard over the Executioner, the Enchantress, Hyperion, and several other toughs; where the Black Knight, Red Wolf, the Scarlet Witch, the Vision, and so many of the others were keeping watch over the beaten Mr. Hyde, Grey Gargoyle, Cobra, Phantom, and the rest of the overbloated Masters of Evil. It had been a tough fight. But once the big guns among the bad guys were subdued, the "gods" among the Avengers' crew had efficiently helped their teammates plow through the remainder of the foe. 

"It's nice of you to notice for once, Clint," said Jan Van Dyne. "What's our next move?" 

"Get back to the Mansion after we dump these guys off and get a good sleep," said Hawkeye. "Pray we hear from Shellhead and Cap before we turn in, too." 

"Just want you to know you did a heck of a job as leader on this trip," said Ant-Man, putting out a hand for Hawkeye to shake. "I think Cap's going to have some competition for the spot once he comes back." 

"Pull the other one, Pym," suggested Clint. But he stopped when he noticed the Black Panther, bent intently over a communications device he was using to contact Wakanda. Hawkeye could read body language fairly well—he'd had to, growing up in a circus and coping with the Swordsman—and he could tell the man in black was stiffening, as if he'd heard something akin to a meteor having destroyed his homeland. Clint couldn't see the masked man's eyes, but he didn't need to. 

"S'cuse me, guys," said Hawkeye. He shouldered his bow and trotted over to T'Challa's side. The Panther put out a hand to halt him. Clint stopped, listened closely, but couldn't hear much more than a couple of yeses and noes. Finally, T'Challa said, "All right. All right, Taku. Thank you. Out." 

The archer was at the Panther's side as the latter turned off his radio set. "Okay, T'Challa. Give. Tell me it's just the price of Vibranium falling on the Dow-Jones." 

The Black Panther looked up at his old friend for a long time, not saying anything. "T'Challa," said Hawkeye in exasperation. "Spill!" 

"It's Cap, Clint," said the Panther, his voice only muffled a bit by the full-face mask he wore. "It's Cap." 

Clint's eyes widened. "What?" 

By this time, Ant-Man and the Wasp had joined them. The Panther looked at the tarmac beneath his crouching feet, sighed, and drew a long breath. "I don't know if I want to tell you." 

Hawkeye grabbed his shoulder. "You're going to. Now." 

Gently, T'Challa removed Hawkeye's hand from his shoulder. "I was speaking with Taku, my communications chieftain. He has been monitoring world news broadcasts for our benefit. It seems that Captain America was lured to a certain cathedral in New York City by the Red Skull." 

"Oh, God," whispered the Wasp. She had only met the Skull once, in a bizarre episode wherein Cap's mind had occupied the villain's body, but that was enough for her. 

"And?" Hawkeye was sure he didn't want to hear the rest of the story. But he could not spare himself. 

The Panther rubbed his brow with a gloved hand. "They were seen plunging through a window towards the ground only seconds before the cathedral exploded." 

Hawkeye grabbed the Panther by both shoulders, looked him straight in the eye, tried to say something, failed. T'Challa just waited him out. Ant-Man held tightly to Jan, who was beginning to weep. 

Finally, Hawkeye said, "You're in charge. I'm going to New York." 

"Not alone," said the Panther. 

"Like hell." 

"Hawkeye." The Panther looked at Clint with firm resolve. "Captain America was the man I chose for my ally when I fought to save Wakanda from Zemo's pilot. He was the one who proposed me for membership in the Avengers. I knew him not as long as you, by far, but he is as much my friend as yours. And he is a brother in arms." 

Hawkeye breathed in once, then let it out. "Come on. Hank, Jan, you see to things here." 

"We...will, Clint," said Ant-Man, trying to keep his own voice steady. 

"Don't tell them," said Hawkeye. "Whatever you do, don't tell them." 

Then he and the Panther were off, sprinting to find an aircraft that had been spared the battle and enough of a runway to do a takeoff. If the Quinjets hadn't been melted, the search for transportation wouldn't be necessary. But that wasn't going to stop the Avengers. Clint Barton vowed that. 

The Panther pointed to a northeastern part of the field. "Over there," he said. 

"What's over there?" 

"That is where the Magna-Ship from Wakanda will land in a few minutes." 

Clint tried to say something, even make a grim wisecrack, anything to let his comrade know that he was still functional. But he couldn't. 

On the way back to New York, he let the Panther drive. 

-M- 

The Puppet Master had been staying up on some of the best stuff Gary Gilbert's suppliers in the Movement could provide. That was to make sure he was able to control the Silver Surfer without falling asleep at an inappropriate time. The Thinker seemed to stay up just fine on his own. Or was he taking catnaps when his partner wasn't looking? 

The problem now was that both of them knew they were in big trouble. The Surfer had broken their dominance, and there'd be hell, or perhaps Zenn-La, to pay. 

"He's coming," said Philip Masters, nervously. 

"Stay calm," advised the Thinker. 

"Stay calm?" The Master, his face eerily suggestive of a puppet of the Howdy Doody stripe, turned in anguish on the Thinker. "With those four coming after us? Is this the reason why your androids fished me out of that burning wreckage and gave me plastic surgery? Made me look like my old self again?" 

"You didn't look like much of anything human at the time," the Thinker assured him. "And it was no small trick using my escape pod to get free of my own rocket when Toro took it over and destroyed it. Now, stand fast, Philip. This gambit has a 99.99999678 percent chance of success." 

"That's what you say about all your plans!" 

The Thinker gave the Puppet Master a venomous look. But there was no time to craft a retort. 

With a sound of dimensional barriers being rent, a hole in space-time opened. A bizarre nimbus of color briefly was visible, awing even the Thinker. The five who emerged from it were the most formidable collection of superhumans on the planet, and it didn't help that two of them had a great reason to bear a grudge against the Puppet Master. 

Dr. Strange, the Hulk, the Sub-Mariner, Clea, and the Silver Surfer were in the sanctum of the Mad Thinker and Puppet Master. 

"You," said the Surfer in a sepulchral voice. He thrust out a forefinger at the puppeteer. "You controlled my will. The trail of energy particles has led me to you, and the Silver Surfer never errs in tracking." 

"Uh...er..." The Puppet Master tried to slink behind a lab table, or under it, or something. Nothing seemed adequate. 

"Hulk smash!" asserted the Green Goliath, striding forward. 

"Hulk," advised Dr. Strange. "These two are only human." 

"Then Hulk only smash a little," the Hulk assured him. 

The Sub-Mariner began advancing towards the Mad Thinker. "For the death of Toro, my fellow Invader, this one is mine," he promised. 

Before he, or anyone else, could fulfill the threat, the Thinker pressed a button on the desk before him. Dr. Strange paralyzed him an instant later with the light of the Agamotto Amulet, but it was a bit too late. 

A large door, about the same dimension as an average warehouse bay door, rolled into the roof speedily on servos. Two figures entered the room, one of them huge, both of them drawing the attention of the Defenders, as well they might. 

One of the newcomers, the giant, had greyish skin and a head shaped like an oblong block, with no discernable features on it save a mouth. The Surfer felt a tingling sensation about his body. An instant later, a blast of the Power Cosmic almost pulverized him. 

He looked up, dazedly, to see that the Awesome Android was covered in silver, with a smoking hand pointed in his direction. 

The other, a blank-featured figure, came quickly on his heels. As he did, his body changed. Bulkier, larger, more powerful, green in color, with wings growing on his ankles, a swirling cloak of levitation about his neck, and a green amulet holding it clasped at his throat. 

Even the Hulk was taken aback by the sight of the Super-Adaptoid, and that was just what the Thinker had been counting on. He gave an order. 

"Kill them," he said. 

-M-   


And then, it was in this way that most of the heroes of Earth were brought together: 

A vision appeared to them in Seattle, Atlanta, and New York. This was a singular vision, and all of them saw it in the same way, and, remarkably, all of them saw each other seeing it. None of them were quite sure how, although some of them had more of a clue than others. 

The vision was not the red-skinned android of the Avengers. Rather, it was of an incredibly majestic, incredibly powerful, incredibly tall humanoid. He was bald and dressed in a white toga-like affair, and towered probably over 12 feet in height. Some sensed that his stature might be variable. They were correct in that. 

"I am the Watcher," he said. 

Members of the X-Men, the Avengers, the Fantastic Four, and the Inhumans repeated his name. Of all of them, only the FF had actually met him before. But they all knew him by reputation. The Four had told them of the ultrapotent being they had met on the Blue Area of the Moon, in 1963. Since then, he had contacted them in times of greatest emergency. In the cases of the Molecule Man, or the war between America's heroes and villains during Reed Richards's and Sue Storm's wedding, or an attempt by Kang to strike in the past. Or the day in which Galactus had come to destroy the Earth. 

The fact that he was here at all was a matter of great portent. Whether he was present physically or spiritually made no difference. The Watcher had come to Earth anew. That was the only thing that mattered. 

"Behold," he said, and raised his hand. 

The heroes were treated to another vision. It was one of combat: in an unknown lair, the Silver Surfer, Dr. Strange, the Hulk, the Sub-Mariner, and an unknown woman were fighting against a silver-skinned titan and a green-skinned, wing-footed, cape-wearing powerhouse. Somewhere in the background, the Mad Thinker and Puppet Master were visible. 

Mr. Fantastic, still holding his wife Sue with one arm, said, "Watcher, what's the meaning of this? What's the Surfer doing with the Hulk and those others?" 

"Permit me, Reed Richards," said Thor, who could hear and be heard by the man he was addressing even though they were hundreds of miles apart. "I myself and two other Avengers did battle with Namor, the Hulk, and the Surfer two years past, when they made an emergency alliance. We did not know they had remained together." 

"I think I heard something of that," said Cyclops, wearily. "Don't you remember when the Hulk and Subby showed up on TV awhile back? Fighting Xemnu, that Saturday-morning TV character?" 

"Thought that was just a show," said the Thing. "So what's up, Watch? The Thinker's the guy behind all this? Send us after 'im!" 

The Watcher spoke again. 

"He whom you call the Thinker is not the author of the present crisis. But the one called Iron Man has been sent to deal with that being. You must aid your fellow heroes—" 

"Heroes?" The Black Widow had spoken. She had never met Dr. Strange, and knew the Hulk, Sub-Mariner, and the Silver Surfer only as outlaws. 

"—or the great android, he who possesses and amplifies the power of the herald of Galactus, may wreak more damage than the author of your predicament." The Watcher didn't even acknowledge the Widow's interruption. "You must go. Now." 

Iceman lifted his head, found his voice, and spoke. "We ain't going." 

"Iceman," warned Havok, who sensed the power inherent in the Watcher. 

"We ain't going, Havok! My God. We've just lost Professor X. He's dead. We're worn out. These other freaks can take it. We've done our part." 

"'Freaks'?" The Human Torch burst into flame. "You want to talk 'freaks', Iceman? You want to talk death? We've just seen a massacre you wouldn't believe! Doc Ock, Kraven, Electro, hell, even Dr. Doom, and a whole lotta soldiers. All of 'em, dead. That's what we just saw, pal. Wanna trade lives?" 

"Shut up, Torch," warned the Iceman, who had met and befriended Johnny Storm years ago, but didn't feel like talking any more just then. 

"Oh? And I suppose we're not supposed to mourn?" The Wasp broke away from Ant-Man, and strode up to where she saw the Watcher's vision. "You want to tell them who we lost, big man? You want to...you want to..." 

Janet Van Dyne realized what she was saying, and said no more. But the others about her began to react with curiosity, and not a little shock. 

"Wasp," said Quicksilver, "you know more than what you're telling. Let us know." 

"No," said Henry Pym. "Sorry, Pietro, but we can't tell." 

"You must!" said the Scarlet Witch. "Only two of us weren't here, at the battle. This...Watcher says that Iron Man is still alive. That can...that can only leave one." 

The Vision, with his sepulchral voice, said the name Wanda wouldn't. 

"Captain America," he said. 

Not only the jaws of the Avengers gaped open, but the other heroes who were linked to the tableau, as well. Their voices were heard: "Cap...it can't be, not Cap...not CAP..." 

Ant-Man looked at his wife with anger. Jan had tears in her eyes. Thor, flanked by Hercules and Sif, spoke to his old teammate. "Henry Pym. Is this true?" 

It took him several seconds to respond. The response was in a whisper, but it carried farther than it should have, somehow. "As far as we know." 

Red Wolf was unable to speak. Even American Indians held Captain America as a symbol of courage and pride. The Black Knight held his breath. Even the Swordsman was awed. "I fought him," he said. "Fought him time and again. Even tried to kill him. But...he was the reason I am who I am." 

If there were tears, they were hidden behind shielding arms, or concealed by downturned faces. But Hercules, the son of Zeus, raised the rallying cry. 

"Send us where you wish," he said, his eyes blazing. "In the name of Captain America, we will triumph." 

Cyclops said, "And in the name of Professor X, the X-Men will help." 

"Amen," said Bobby Drake, finally. Lorna Dane gave him a look of reappraisal. Havok didn't miss it. 

Gorgon had something to say. "The Silver Surfer fought us, not two years ago. We also battled the Hulk. Why should we bother to help them?" 

Triton glared at his cousin. "Because Prince Namor is my friend. And anyone whom he stands beside is an ally of mine. What say you now, Gorgon?" 

Before the hooved Inhuman could reply, Black Bolt made a singular gesture with his hand. Medusa interpreted: "Black Bolt says we will go to the Surfer's aid. It is decided." 

The Watcher looked at them all, passively. 

"You already know we're in," said Reed Richards, resignedly. 

"Count the Avengers in, too," said Ant-Man. "But I think all the Asgardians except Thor and Sif should stay here and watch the bad guys. All right, guys?" 

Volstagg sniffed. "Surely, the Lion of Asgard cannot be relegated to mere guardian duty." 

Hogun said, "We shall stay. You may take Volstagg with you." 

"On the other hand," Volstagg considered, "one would not presume to leave one's fellows doing such a perilous duty. I shall remain, Hogun." 

"Good," said Hogun. Fandral cracked a smile. Hogun didn't. 

Cyclops said, "On behalf of my team of X-Men, I'll accept. I can't answer for my brother." 

Havok smiled. "Thanks, Cyke. We're all hurting. But if there's still a job to do...the new X-Men are gonna play their part." 

"Then it is settled," said the Watcher, and lifted his massive hand. "Prepare yourselves." 

With that, the three assemblages of heroes found themselves no longer in Seattle, Atlanta, or New York. Instead, they were elbow-to-elbow in the large lair of the Mad Thinker, where the Defenders were still trying to fight off their two android enemies. 

"AVENGERS ASSEMBLE!" 

"IT'S CLOBBERIN' TIME!" 

"X-MEN, ATTACK!" 

"Tippecanoe and Tyler, too!" offered Daredevil as he whipped the end of his billy club into the metal rafters and swung forward, grabbing the Mad Thinker in a scissors grip. 

The Super-Adaptoid, who had been withering Namor and the Hulk with brute strength and mystic spells, looked up at the throng coming for them. He did not see Captain America, who was his programmed quarry. Perhaps it was that which undid him, in the end. 

Hercules leaped at the green android, grabbing it about its massive head. "Have at thee, humanoid! Now test the thews of the Lion of Olympus!" 

The Thing launched himself into the fray and landed with both fists in the Adaptoid's midsection. "Not to mention the mitts of Benjamin J. Grimm, idol of millions!" 

The powerful android was staggered, and tried to formulate one of the magic spells he'd adapted from Dr. Strange. But the pair of Strange and Clea, having picked themselves off the floor where they'd been knocked by one of the Awesome Android's bursts, pointed their hands at the Adaptoid and encased his head in a spell of silence. 

That was all it took for the Hulk and Sub-Mariner to recover and lend a hand. Within seconds, each of the four men of power had one of the Super-Adaptoid's limbs in his grasp. 

Then they made a wish. 

The android was left quadriplegic. He had little time to worry about that. Hercules's mace descended and smashed his head to flinders. The Hulk belligerently jumped up and down on his foe's chest, crushing the metallic rib cage and interior mechanisms on the first try, then crushing the pieces into even smaller pieces with every stomp. To him, it just felt good. 

But the Silver Android was by far the deadliest threat. It lacked the Surfer's intelligence or finesse, but it exceeded him in raw power. Raising its misshapen hands, it launched a bolt of pure destruction at the heroes. 

Said bolt was stopped short by a combination of Black Bolt's electron shield and Sue Richards's invisible force-field. Neither one of them thought it could withstand another blow. 

The Surfer drew himself up and caught the attention of Thor. "Thunder god. When I lend you my power...throw your hammer." 

Thor hesitated not a second. "Thou didst aid me in the battle with Durok the Demolisher. I say thee begin, Surfer." 

The Zenn-Lavian raised his silvered hands and poured power into the god of thunder. Sif was awed to see it. Thor seemed to be gaining mass and bulk under the Surfer's ministrations, and a power that could thus affect an Asgardian was a power to be reckoned with, indeed. 

The Silver Android was generating a ball of force between his hands. 

"Throw!" yelled the Surfer. 

Thor did. 

Mjolnir flew from Thor's hands like a rocket. The uru hammer passed through the bolt of Power Cosmic between the Android's hands and smashed into its chest. It kept on going. Straight through the Android's interior, out its back, through walls and anything else in its path, until it was lost from sight. 

There was a phenomenal outrush of power from the hole in the Android's body and everyone, Thor and Surfer included, hit the deck. 

By the time it was finished, the hammer had crashed through the ceiling and returned to Thor's hand. The thunderer looked his normal self again, and was. The heroes and their two human enemies began to get up off the floor, or from behind whatever they used to hide. The Super-Adaptoid was still in very small pieces. 

There were two legs which belonged to the Android, no longer silver, and shorn away from the calves up. That was all that remained. 

Ant-Man said, "Nobody better start quoting 'Ozymandias', or else." 

The Puppet Master tried to run through a hole the Android's power had blown through the wall. Dr. Strange, his cloak soiled by concrete dust, raised a gloved hand and made a mystic gesture. The puppeteer was stopped in his tracks. 

Reed Richards elongated one arm out, located the Mad Thinker, lifted him off the floor, and dangled him before the assemblage. "We've got a lot of questions, Thinker," said Reed, softly. "Feel like talking, or should I just toss you to Namor, here?" 

"He will talk," said Namor, grinding one hand furiously into his other palm. "Of his own will, or otherwise." 

"How 'bout it?" said the Thing, stepping up and waving a huge orange finger at the man dangling from Reed's elastic fingertips. "You behind this? If you are, I sure didn't think ya had it in ya, Thinker." 

The disgruntled genius sighed, still a couple of feet off the floor. "We were hired," he admitted. 

"By whom?" asked Dr. Strange, not looking pleased. 

Before the Thinker could answer, Sue Richards cried out. "Wait a minute! We're not all here. What happened to Johnny? Has anybody seen the Human Torch?" 

Nobody had. A quick search was made of what remained of the premises while Reed, Strange, and a few others heard the Thinker's confession. While they were doing that, Ant-Man took the Sub-Mariner aside and explained something to him in subdued tones. Namor cried out in anguish, then turned, leaped, and tore the Thinker from Reed Richards's grasp. 

"You!" he snarled, his hands compressing the Thinker's skull. "You slew the first Human Torch. You slew his partner, Toro. Now Captain America is dead, and you have a hand in the plot. One last Invader remains...to avenge them!" 

Thor and Hercules pulled Sub-Mariner off and held him with difficulty. "Let me go, in Neptune's name! Blood cries out for blood. The Thinker must die!" 

Clea stepped before the Sub-Mariner. "Peace, Namor. This day, according to those with us, many have died. This man called 'Thinker' had no direct hand in Captain America's death." 

"He stood with them!" 

Cyclops came to stand beside Clea. "Listen, Sub-Mariner. We've fought before, so I know your measure...and maybe you know mine. Today, I just lost a man who was my father, in all ways but by blood. The FF just told us about the carnage in Seattle. Over a score of soldiers killed, and about as many super-villains. Including Dr. Doom." 

Namor's eyes widened in renewed shock. "Doom is dead?" 

"He is, Namor," said Reed Richards. The Sub-Mariner and Dr. Doom had crossed swords several times over the years, despite the fact that they had both been foes of the Fantastic Four. Doom had sought to use Namor as a tool against Richards's band, and, once, had succeeded. "We've seen death enough, today. More than enough. If peace begins, if an end to killing begins, let it begin now. Thor, Herc, let him go." 

Hercules looked at Reed, aghast. "Art thou mad?" 

"Let him go," Reed repeated. 

Thor looked at Hercules and nodded. The two immortals relaxed their grips. The Sub-Mariner stood, breathing shallowly. He did not move from where he was, but his gaze didn't waver from the cowering Thinker. 

"Your life has been bought," said Namor. "But no man can say for how long. Tell me the name of your master." 

When he could find his voice, the Thinker said, "Gilbert. Gary Gilbert." 

"Where can we find him?" 

"I, I don't know. He always found us." 

"WHERE CAN WE FIND HIM?" Namor moved ahead a step. The Olympian and Asgardian tensed, ready to bring the Sub-Mariner down if he took another. The Scarlet Witch had quietly told Quicksilver to move the Thinker out of harm's way, if necessary. 

But the Thinker himself looked ready to blubber. "I don't know. Don't hurt me! Don't hurt me!" 

Reed Richards looked disgusted. "Let's contact SHIELD and get this cleaned up. Can you get us all out of here, Surfer?" 

"Indeed, Reed Richards," said the Silver Surfer. 

Sue Richards grasped the silver-skinned alien by the arm. "Wait, Surfer. I know you have tracking powers far beyond anything we can imagine. Can you tell me where my brother is? The Human Torch?" 

The Surfer paused, looked upward a moment, then said, "No. Not at present." 

The Invisible Girl took a deep breath and went to the side of Reed Richards. 

At present, there was nothing any of the heroes assembled could do. 

-M- 

"...This just in, we have a report in the field from Dan Rather. Dan, are you there?" 

"Yes, Walter, I'm here, on the site of...what used to be St. Lucius's Cathedral here in Manhattan. As you can see...as you can see, the structure has been gutted by what appears to be a powerful bomb, an incendiary device of some sort. I've spoken...I've spoken with firefighters and police on duty here. They did confirm that Captain America and the Red Skull were both in the cathedral when it blew up. One police helicopter was knocked out of the sky by the blast...excuse me..." 

"Dan. Are you still there?" 

"Yes, Walter, I'm just moving to get out of the way of the emergency crew. They've...the police chopper did crash, there were several casualties there as well." 

"Dan. Were there hostages in the cathedral? Were there hostages, Dan?" 

"Walter, as far as I can confirm, the only two hostages we know of were the Falcon and an unnamed woman. The only thing I know for certain at this time is that both were taken to a hospital by ambulance. They were not, I repeat not, in the cathedral when it exploded. At present we do not, repeat, do not know the fate of either Captain America...or the Red Skull. Now, we know of the erroneous report of Captain America's death that circulated in 1969, even resulting in a...even a funeral attended by the Avengers. That proved to be false. So many here are still hoping, and praying, that the Captain did indeed survive the conflagration. But we have no definite knowledge at this time." 

"Thank you, Dan. We'll be waiting for further reports. As for...other events across the nation in this hour, bloodshed resulted from a riot between the Black Panther Party and the Sons of the Serpent in Oakland, California today...President Nixon is calling for activists on all sides to put down their weapons and observe a day of peace, but it is doubtful how many intend to comply with...that directive. The tragedy in Atlanta, resulting in the deaths of more than twenty American soldiers and a number of so-called 'super-villains', including the unconfirmed death of Doctor Doom, has apparently crested. Federal emergency teams are moving in to handle operations there. The Avengers have apparently restored order at the Seattle airport where the Masters of Evil had taken charge. Order has been restored in San Francisco and Dallas, sites of recent super-rioting. 

"But a state of emergency still exists within the United States, and it seems certain that few can rest easy until more control can be restored. Both in the superhuman, and human, arenas of operation. Stay tuned to CBS for further special reports as events develop. I'm Walter Cronkite." 

"This has been a CBS Special Report: Super-Crisis in America. We now return you to your regularly scheduled program." 

-M- 

Dum Dum Dugan, Gabe Jones, Val de Fontaine, and a lamed Jasper Sitwell were at the side of Nick Fury in the SHIELD temporary HQ in New Jersey. Fury was observing things as well as possible from a spy satellite relay. It showed the form of a red-and-gold-armored Avenger hurtling through the California sky, closing on a single plane before him. 

"Give us the word, Nick," said Dum Dum. "We've gotta knock it outta the sky." 

"No way, Dugan," said Fury, his eyes not wavering from the monitor screen. "You know what cargo that baby's carryin'. We hit it with a missile, we shoot it down with a plane, it scatters all over the state. You've seen the demonstration." 

"I sure as hell have. That's why I'm tellin' you to hit the thing!" 

"Agent Dugan," said Sitwell, trying to interrupt. 

Fury turned savagely from the monitor screen. "Both of you, shut it! If Gilbert was holdin' a nuke in that plane, we could knock it out and know it wouldn't blow up on impact. But that ain't what he's holdin'. Right now, the only chance we've got is that guy in the tin suit. You read me, Dugan? Sitwell?" 

Dugan said, "I read you, Nick." 

"Affirmative, sir," said Sitwell. "But if I may, I would like to register protest over this matter." 

"Received and noted, Sitwell," said Nick. "The fighters are already scrambled. But if Iron Man don't come through..." 

He didn't want to finish the sentence. Nobody else finished it for him. So they sat and watched the monitor, and prayed. 

-M- 

Yuri Brevlov, head of SWORD, the Soviet Union's version of SHIELD, turned to receive a message from an aide. He recognized the coding on it as legitimate and from the highest authority. "Comrade," he said. "This purports to be from the premier." 

"It does, Comrade Brevlov," said the aide. 

"It is an order to attack SHIELD outposts in Europe within twenty-four hours." 

"That is what it appears to be, comrade." 

"This smacks of adventurism and is quite unlike the level-headedness of our beloved premier. I suggest that this message has been garbled in translation, or, worse, sent by an agency masquerading as the premier. Please go back and get me a confirmation. From the premier himself." 

"Comrade Brevlov, I..." 

Yuri turned and gave him the eye. The apparatchik did a fast fade. 

Brevlov turned back to his own monitor, from his own spy satellite feed. His own sources had told him enough of what his old friend Fury was facing in America. 

Silently, he committed a counter-revolutionary act, and hoped God was listening. 

-M- 

The plane that AIM had supplied Gary Gilbert with was powerful indeed. Iron Man was straining his jets to keep pace with it. But he'd be damned if he'd let the thing get away from him now. Even if he had to drain power from other vital areas and leave himself substantially weakened afterward. 

It wasn't as though he had a choice. 

Tony Stark flipped some relays within his armor controls. A new burst of flame exploded from his boot-jets, and he shot towards the plane before him. It tried a few evasive maneuvers, but they were below his contempt. 

The problem was, this thing was carrying a dangerous cargo. It had to be brought down safely, if such a thing could be done. Gilbert was bound not to be cooperative on that account. 

Then, Iron Man saw the door blow out of the plane in a burst of flame. 

He steeled himself, prepared for a further, larger explosion. But none came. The door, burning, simply fell towards the Earth. 

With an aerial motion that a World War I pilot would have envied, the man of iron swooped out, came back in, matched speed, and, finally, thrust himself through the doorway of the plane, the slipstream and momentum slamming him within it, down the slim passageway towards the back, until he finally gained control of his motion and came to a stop. He was wedged against a brace of seats, in an awkward position. 

He managed to lift his head and see the other occupant of the plane, standing near the controls—the plane had to be on autopilot—outfitted in red and gold armor not unlike his own, and looking confident. Damnably, inhumanly, confident. 

"Good afternoon, Iron Man," said Firebrand. "Welcome to the Fire." 

To be concluded....   
  



	28. Part 28:  FIRE!

FIRE! 

By DarkMark 

Part 28 

Iron Man was on his feet as soon as Firebrand began speaking. His repulsors were pointed towards his foe, just as Gary Gilbert's fire-dealing hands were stretched out in the Avenger's direction. But Firebrand had a word of caution. 

"Just a minute, running dog," said Firebrand, calmly. "Don't you know what cargo this plane is carrying? Don't you know what a single impact in the wrong place, or a spark gone awry, could touch off?" He smirked. "It could start the Fire." 

"I know what you have here, Firebrand," said Iron Man. "Take the plane down, land it safely, and I swear...I swear...that you won't be harmed. If you surrender." 

"If. I. Surrender." Gilbert laughed, loudly, shortly. "Listen to you, man. Do you think, after what took place in Seattle, that any man, especially me, would trust the American government? Ask Dr. Octopus. Ask Dr. Doom." 

"You can ask me, Gilbert," Iron Man said, his palms still full out. "You can depend on my word." 

Firebrand sighed. "Is that why the Air Force and SHIELD haven't tried to shoot me down yet? Because they're afraid for you, or afraid of what I'm carrying?" 

"Let's just take our blessings where we can find them, Gilbert. Nobody's dead yet. It's in our mutual best interest to keep things that way." 

"I'm sorry, old friend. Very sorry. You know it can't end like that." 

The man of iron thought Firebrand, behind his metal mask, looked sad. "Maybe you can tell me something, Gilbert. Maybe you can tell me what brought you to this." 

"Oh, God, Iron Man, Iron Man." Gilbert laughed mirthlessly. "I thought you, of all people, would understand. You've been so close to the wheels of power in this country for so long, you can't be that ignorant." 

"Ignorant of what?" 

"Ignorant of the price the world's paid to keep us on top. Do you know how much of the Earth's resources is used up by the United States, let alone the rest of the First World? Do you know how many people starve in India, go cold and hungry in Africa, just so about two hundred million people in America can go to bed under central heating and wake up to a nice bowl of Cheerios in the morning? Do you know how much we use up?" 

"I know," said Iron Man. "I've been in a lot more of the world than you could imagine. You also ought to know, if you've been keeping up with us, that Stark was one of the first companies to take heed of the pollution problem and act on it. That we've been instrumental in seeking alternative power sources, building factories in underprivileged nations to help the local economy. That we've worked with the United Nations to try and improve methods of farming, of..." 

"Oh, shut the hell up." Firebrand leaned against the side of the cockpit. "That's the same eyewash every American industrial entity deals out these days. What does it amount to? Cosmetic changes. We try and put filters on smokestacks, but we still drive the gas-guzzling internal combusion engines on wheels that make the air unfit to breathe. We build factories in Third World countries, and still keep our nukes pointed at them." 

"Yeah, and their nukes are pointed at us, often as not. You know that." 

"Who had them first?" 

"Who used them only twice, and then never again, even against the Russians?" 

"Semantics, Iron Man. Only semantics." 

Iron Man stood up, carefully. "More than semantics, Firebrand. Reality. A condition you seem to have a problem grasping." 

"Oh? Really? I think I've got a pretty good grip on reality, Iron Man. After all, look how much of it I've managed to restructure in the past few weeks. Could you do the same? Could Tony Stark?" 

Tightly, Iron Man said, "Construction takes time and effort. Destruction takes a lot less, just the sweep of an arm to knock over a stack of blocks. But you never seem to think about picking up your toys after you've made the mess." 

"As in Viet Nam?" 

"I know more about Viet Nam than you'll ever know, son. I was there." 

Firebrand's eyes blazed, and he took a step forward. "Don't call me son, damn you. Don't call me son, don't ever call me son! Do you hear me?" 

Iron Man's repulsors were ready for activation. Firebrand caught himself just in time, and stood there breathing heavily. 

"I was there, Firebrand," said Iron Man, quietly. "I was there before Lyndon Johnson ever committed troops. I got my chest ripped open by a hidden grenade. The Viet Cong found me. They recognized me, so they patched me back up enough to save my life. But that wouldn't have been enough if a prisoner in the same camp where they took me hadn't helped me build my first iron suit, to keep the shrapnel away from my heart. I had to wear a chestplate for seven years after that, or die within an hour. That's what I've had to live with, Gilbert. Now do you know who I am?" 

Firebrand's eyes went wide. "You're Tony Stark," he said, in a whisper. Then, much louder. "You're Tony Stark!" 

He threw back his head and laughed, riotously. "Oh, God, my God, you're Tony Stark. It can't be. It's just too, too perfect. You. Tony Stark. I should have guessed, I really, really, should have..." 

"Firebrand! Stop it!" 

Instantly, cool descended over Gary Gilbert's mien. "It's too late to stop anything, Iron Man. History will have its way. You should know that." 

"Oh, come off it, Gilbert. History is in our hands, every day. In the choices we make. To kill, or to have mercy. To destroy, or to build. To condemn, or to forgive. And for all my life..." 

"For most of your life, you built weapons of mass destruction," answered Firebrand. "To fight off the big bad Russians, the godless Commies who wouldn't let us keep a nuclear monopoly. Myself, I'm kind of glad they kept us from having one." 

"You scum." 

"Ah-ah. No, my friend. Do you really think that if Stalin hadn't gotten the Bomb, someone else in the Oval Office wouldn't have acted with a little less discretion? We dropped two bombs to end a hot war. Do you think we wouldn't have dropped a few more to end a cold one?" 

"So why are you putting yourself in that catbird seat, Firebrand?" 

The other almost surged forward. "Because I can. And because somebody has to. Next question?" 

"I have a lot of them. Such as: what kind of twisted mind could see the physical destruction of the United States as a humanitarian act?" 

Firebrand shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe you'd better ask Nixon and Breshnev. They've had their nuclear arsenals pointed at each other for years." 

"And you want to press the button." 

"No, Mr. Stark. I'm afraid I have to press it. And I'm afraid I have to tell you why. Would that be all right with you?" 

"Keep talking." 

"I know your feeling, Tony. May I call you Tony? Thanks. You think, as long as he's talking, he's not releasing his cargo. Actually, I'm just not releasing it yet. I want...I want someone to know what I'm doing, to understand it, to understand me, even if it's only an audience of one. After all..." Firebrand chuckled. "I suppose the movies do have that right. The villain always wants to boast of his plans." 

"I'm listening." 

"It takes more than the average mind to understand the problem of humanity, Tony. How we got from point A to this very deadly point B...or point Z, more likely. We have two uberpowers, swords at each other's throat, both of them daring the other to make the first move. That's how it's been for over twenty years. With all the other little nations running around frightened, asking each other, 'Are they gonna do it? Are they gonna do it?' And all of us digging our little fallout shelters that fall in when a little fire comes near them, or thinking that putting our head between our legs is going to save us when the bomb drops. Good Lord, Choke, as the comic books I read when I was a kid put it. Good Lord. Choke." 

Iron Man waited. 

"The world...the world just couldn't go on as it was, Tony. Not if we were going to save any of it. Neither one could win in a nuclear confrontation. Hell, the entire world would lose in that, all the people who never had a beef one way or the other. And if one did win, what then? Russia? Be looking forward to Stalinist tyranny from then on. America? The rapacious depradations of capitalism, forever." 

"Seems to me you've been pretty good at rapaciousness, these days." 

"That's true, Tony. I have. I learned so much from you and...I simply wouldn't have been able to do what I did without you. I wouldn't have been able to raise the money, to learn the secrets of leadership, to think big, as a businessman must, in order to make things work. Nobody ever organized super-villainy before, and put it on a mass, paying basis. They were just gangs before. Never an army." 

"Your army lost," said Iron Man. 

"They lost all the battles," said Firebrand. "The war's still going on." 

"How much did it cost you, Gilbert?" 

"The villains, or what I'm carrying?" 

"Both." 

"Oh." Gilbert considered. "That's what we have accountants for, really. Suffice it to say, if things were to continue as they have, Gilbert Industries probably wouldn't be able to pay its employees next year. But...that's all right. We're going out of business, anyway." 

Iron Man shook his head. "This is megalomania. I've seen people with similar designs before. The Mandarin. Kang. Midas. But you..." 

"Not bad for a one-time, second-string villain from New Rochelle, eh, Iron Man?" Firebrand grinned. "America really was the Land of Opportunity." 

"It'll still be, long after both of us are dust." 

"Not really," said Gilbert. "I had planned for the Silver Surfer to cripple Russia's defenses, and a good part of their sustaining system, to take them out of the picture. If he failed, the Thinker's Android was to be a backup." 

"What?" 

"Oh, never mind. I don't think that came off, anyway. But this will be enough to upset the applecart. Without the United States in the picture, the powers will realign themselves. No more First World marauding, no more Third World poverty." 

"No more anything," said Iron Man. "Russia and China will be at each other's throats in no time. You ought to know that." 

"Iron Man, my responsibility ends with what I do here. It is up to the rest of humanity to determine what they do after this Gotterdammerung. This Fire. We should be at an altitude sufficient to sweep the cargo over the United States. Now, if you please..." 

A repulsor was pointing straight at Firebrand. "Don't move." 

"Supposing I don't. What do you think will happen then? There's an autopilot on this craft that has been bringing us higher. It won't take very much longer for a dead man's control to release the contents all by themselves. And as I've said, just one spark in the wrong place..." 

A repulsor blast hit Firebrand in the chest, smashing him against the controls in the cockpit. The plane dipped, then righted itself. 

"Well, if that's the way you want it," said Firebrand, and lunged at Iron Man. 

-M- 

Nick Fury was trying to contact Iron Man through the latter's in-suit radio. The Golden Avenger had left his set on so Fury, and the Oval Office (which was patched in), and the Kremlin (which the president had patched in through the hotline) could hear the proceedings. "Iron Man. Iron Man! Are ya there? Can ya hear me? Iron Man!" 

"He can't talk, Nick," said Gabe Jones. "He's busy." 

Fury turned back to the others in the office. "We've gotta keep that plane from going any higher. But we can't let it blow up or crash. Where's the Interceptors?" 

"Closing, sir," said Sitwell, looking up from a control panel. "But they won't be there in time." 

Val looked at Nick. Usually, this would be the time in which he swore. But he didn't seem able to do it, under the circumstances. 

"Where are the FF and Avengers? What happened to the Defenders, for cripes' sake?" Fury bit down savagely on his stogie. 

"We lost contact with the Defenders after they took the Surfer," Dum Dum said. "The other guys just vanished. So did the X-Men. No contact, yet." 

"Have we even heard from Spider-Man?" 

Jimmy Woo said, "Actually, Nick, I think Spidey's been sighted." 

"Where at?" 

"I think he's in the general vicinity of the George Washington Bridge." 

-M- 

PARKER 

So there I was, swinging past everything, with twice as many web-cells in my belt as I'd normally use. There was no way I was even gonna think of running out, with what was at stake. 

I didn't think the Goblin would have been there very long. That would have been risking interference by police helicopters. I was right, as it turned out, but one of them had already been dispatched, and he'd shot it down. The crew managed to escape, but the chopper is still there in the Hudson. 

What was I thinking? I've already told you what I thought before I got there. Traffic was stalled out on one side of the Bridge. I didn't have to guess why. 

When I got close enough to see which bridge support had two people on top of it, one of them looking like she was lying on her side and unable to move, the other one standing up and looking green and purple even from a distance, I don't know if I could think. I do know I saw red. 

Then I probably went into automatic. 

-M- 

The Green Goblin looked at the approaching Spider-Man and smiled. 

The woman on the bridge support beside him was conscious, terrified, gagged and bound. The Goblin couldn't tell whether she was aware or catatonic. Really, it didn't much matter. She wasn't going to move around a lot, because that might pitch her dangerously near the edge. Whether you fell on the bridge or in the water, from this height, the results would be pretty much the same. 

For a moment, he had to reconsider. What was it all about, after all? He had power. He had wealth. As Norman Osborn, head of Osborn Chemicals, he controlled over a million dollars, personally. Why did he bother with the Goblin thing? Why had he made the attempts to control the underworld? 

Why indeed? 

Power. That was the answer. Power and the Game. His financial status as Osborn didn't compare a bit to the physical might he had as the Goblin. His business and technical achievements couldn't match the feeling he had, riding a jet engine with wings...one of his own creation!...or firing finger-missles or plasma bursts from gimmicked gloves he had designed and manufactured himself. As a weapons maker, he often fancied himself in the Tony Stark league. It was just that they specialized in different areas. 

As the Goblin, he could get his hands in things. It was hands-on power, not executive power. He could see the face of the man he destroyed. 

Spider-Man had made it personal. Befriending his son Harry, using him against the Goblin psychologically. That was what had enabled Parker to survive their climactic confrontation, when he'd had Spider-Man trapped like the laboratory specimen he really was. Parker had thrown Harry up at him in the conversation, and the Goblin had been psychically unmanned. The fight after that was almost anticlimactic. 

He'd lost the battle, and lost his Goblinhood. 

Twice since then, he'd regained it. Twice, he'd been beaten, and forced to forget anew. Not this time. This time, Spider-Man was going to lose the Game. It would be direct, final, and fatal. No tricks, no delaying, no artsy gambits to give the prey a chance to make counterplans. No. This time, Spider-Man was going to die. 

His wife would witness his demise. 

What would he do after that? Oh, probably kill her. That would be the merciful thing to do, after all. 

It wasn't like the Goblin was a villain, after all. He was just a player, in the grandest game of all. 

And this time, he was going to win. 

-M- 

PARKER 

When I got close enough to the Goblin, he let me have a pumpkin in the face. I webbed up a net between my hands and bounced it back at him. Good thing, too: the gas it was filled with was probably poisonous. He blasted it away with one of his finger-rays and it went over the side of the bridge and popped. After that, he tried sparklers, boomers, heat and cold blasts, all his regular party favors. 

They didn't work, and he didn't expect them to. My eyes were shut when he started that. I ran on Spider-Sense until I sensed that he wasn't firing the stuff anymore. My web had snagged the top of the bridge support. I pushed off from the side of it, gave a big swing, went over on top of it, let go of the web, and touched down. 

He was grinning. 

I told him to let the woman go, and I'd let him live. I meant it, too. Also the alternative. 

He grinned even wider, and he said something: 

-M- 

"Oh, why be so formal, Spider-Man? We both know you're Peter Parker, and this is your wife Gwen. I know her too. Remember?" 

Gwen Stacy, her wrists bound behind her by a polymer she had no hope of breaking, her mouth stuffed with a gag, sat bolt upright and stared at the Goblin in horror and amazement. She didn't think she had any capacity left for shock in her, but she had been wrong. 

"This is your last chance, Goblin," said Spider-Man, in a voice of deadly softness. "Let me take her to safety, and I'll come back here, or anywhere you want, and fight you. You name the trap. I'll walk into it. If you don't..." 

"If I don't?" The Goblin laughed. "You'd actually kill me? Perhaps, Peter. But it wouldn't come naturally to you. You'd have to convince yourself to do it. You'd have to fight yourself. Whereas, for me..." 

Even spider-sense barely warned Spider-Man in time to duck the line of glowing plasma from the Goblin's glove. 

"...it just comes naturally," finished the Goblin. 

Gwen Stacy watched in horror...no, worse, in agony...as her husband dodged, ducked, leapt, stuck to the sides or the top of the bridge support, using his adhesive hands and feet. The Goblin was sending an incredible array of weapons at him from his pouch. Spider-Man shot webs at him, but the Goblin touched his fingers to the center of his palms and put forth a spray that dissolved them. 

"A little trick I picked up from Mysterio," he commented. "Good for cleaning out the cobwebs." 

Then he released another weapon: something that looked a bit like a flying handkerchief with a face on it. It seemed drawn to Spider-Man, and was, attracted by his body heat. The web-slinger tried to dodge. He couldn't quite manage it. Even though he tore at its substance, it wrapped itself around his head, constricting, suffocating. 

And a plasma burst caught Spider-Man full in the chest. 

With her eyes, Gwen Stacy screamed. 

Spider-Man tumbled backwards off the bridge support. 

The Green Goblin laughed. He threw back his head and laughed uproariously as if he'd heard the full repertoire of Bob Hope, Bill Cosby, and Bob Newhart combined. 

Gwen, still wearing her flats, kicked out at his ankle as hard as she could. It tripped him, made him fall flat on his green-masked face. 

The Goblin got back up and turned to her, looking not at all pleased. 

"So," he said, almost reasonably. "The little woman wants to play the Game too, eh? Well, that's all right. Equality and all that. Besides..." 

He began to walk towards her. 

"...it won't take all that much effort to make your child an orphan." 

That was the approximate time that two red-gloved hands appeared above the edge of the bridge support. 

They were shortly followed by a familiar masked head and a blue-and-red-clad body, the uniform of which was burned off around the chest, which itself showed some severe burning. The Goblin barely had time to notice before he was attacked. 

"It'll take more than you've got," grated Spider-Man. 

-M- 

PARKER 

I usually hold back in my fights. If I hadn't pulled my punches a little, a lot of normal-powered thugs would've been dead. I've crushed solid bricks with my hands, kids. I've lifted a mass of metal with the weight of a locomotive off my back. I've shaken the Chameleon out of a car with a bunch of guys hanging off my other arm. 

Strictly speaking, I am not in Thor's class, but neither am I a lightweight. 

This was different. The Goblin's strength and durability had been enhanced by that chemical explosion he'd been in, and maybe he'd done something to himself since then to enhance it. Also, that thing I was fighting had endangered my wife. 

I could not forgive that. 

Quite bluntly, I was in the process of beating him to death. 

It wasn't like he wasn't fighting back. He slashed at me with some kind of blade in his glove, tried to use more blasters. I tore the things off his hands and threw them over the side of the bridge. He was under me, I was on top of him, and I was beating him to a pulp. You could see the blood leaking out through the holes in his mask. 

I didn't care. 

Gwen had never seen that side of me. I don't know that I had, either. I know she was terrified, but she'd been in that state, or near it, since she woke up gagged and bound on top of the bridge, with the Green Goblin for company. 

She'd just have to live with it, until I could get the thing finished. 

The beating stopped when something hit me in the back. Something very hard, very metallic, very fast. It knocked the breath out of me, and I was lucky it didn't take a couple of ribs with it. Or maybe even my spine. 

The Goblin had summoned his bat-glider and hit me with it. 

He managed to kick me off, lurched to his feet, and staggered over to where Gwen was. Everything in me was trying to draw in breath, to get up, to hit him again, to save my wife. 

And nothing in me was capable of it. 

The Goblin didn't say anything. I don't know if he could, at that point. He just went over to the place where Gwen was lying. She tried to squirm out of his grasp. That put her even more near the edge. 

From the angle I was at, I couldn't tell whether or not the Goblin grabbed her, or whether she just made one squirm too hard. That's me trying to be fair. But I know what I know. 

The Green Goblin went and threw my wife Gwen off the side of the George Washington Bridge. 

-M- 

Iron Man slammed into Firebrand as hard as he could, under the circumstances. He delivered a powerful, brass-knuckled blow to the red-armored face before him. It was obvious the punch hurt. But so did the knee that Firebrand gave him, and the burst of flame that heated his faceplate and made him back off. 

The two champions of chaos and order crashed about the cabin of the plane, doing more damage than Tony Stark wanted to do to the craft. If it was harmed enough, it might discharge its deadly cargo. For the past 24 hours, he had known exactly what Firebrand had bought from AIM. He knew what it could do, too. 

Inferno 42. 

The deadliest incendiary weapon ever devised by man. 

A microscopic amount, under carefully controlled conditions, could devastate an entire building. A bit of it about as big as the end joint of a human thumb could lay waste to half of New York. 

There was no telling how much Firebrand had purchased, but it had to be in the hundreds of pounds. Maybe over a thousand. 

AIM had manufactured Inferno 42, intending it to be a blackmail tool against nations, but wound up being too scared to use it. Captain America and Sharon Carter had kept Batroc from getting his hands on a canister of it. SHIELD had neutralized it, just barely. It had to be kept in a storage container stronger than those used for nuclear waste. Whether or not it would outlast Man on the planet was not known. 

Now, the least spark penetrating its closed container could touch it off. 

Iron Man wanted to spare Firebrand's life, if he was able to. He had only killed once, and that was when he executed Wong-Chu, the Red terrorist who had killed Professor Yinsen, with whom Tony Stark had built the Iron Man armor. Wong-Chu had died to keep him from executing the South Vietnamese prisoners he held. There was more at stake here, but Stark wanted to save Gilbert, if he could, to stand trial. 

The problem was that such a measure was secondary to saving the United States. 

If the plane achieved sufficient altitude, its deadly spray would be spread across the continental U.S., and possibly part of Canada and Mexico as well. 

That was Gary Gilbert's ultimate plan: to murder the population of the United States of America. 

In the sight of that, Iron Man would do whatever he had to, to thwart Firebrand. The Fire must not be unleashed. 

The problem was that Firebrand was crowding him, grappling with him, grasping his wrists and turning his burners up high enough to threaten to melt Iron Man's armor. 

"You're dying, Stark," whispered Firebrand. "You're dying like America." 

"Never," declared Iron Man, and blasted Firebrand with his repulsors. 

The burst smashed Gilbert away. Iron Man leaped at his foe, but Firebrand kicked at him, slamming him against the cockpit wall... 

...and sending Gilbert through the doorway. 

Iron Man swore mentally and, with the plane lurching ever higher, grabbed the side of the plane and dug his hand into the metal for support. He made it to the controls, found the autopilot, and disengaged it. Then, sitting in the pilot's seat, he grasped the control yoke and began to point the nose of the plane downward. With any luck, he could find some airport at which to ditch this thing. From there on, FEMA and SHIELD could take care of it. 

A burst of flame from the doorway enveloped him, blinded him, threatened to roast him in his shell. 

The thermocoupler was on, but it was threatening to overload. His cooling system was doing everything it could to keep his body at a survivable temperature. Iron Man pushed forward on the yoke. It broke off in his hands. 

The heat had fused it. 

Iron Man felt Firebrand's metal fist slamming into his faceplate and knocking him out of what remained of the chair. The impact was terrific. Obviously, Gilbert had improved his armor. 

But then, what less could he expect of him? 

"Damn you! Stay down!" rasped Firebrand, blasting at him with both burners. Staggered, Iron Man fought for consciousness, his armor steaming, parts of the plane already on fire. Gilbert would be on him in a second. 

Perhaps that would be the best thing. 

In his eagerness to be at the enemy, Firebrand stepped closer, still unleashing the maximum power of his gloves' flamethrowers at Iron Man. The entire cabin was heating up. As well shielded as the Inferno 42 was, there was no telling how much heat its casing could take. 

At this point, Gary Gilbert didn't care. 

Until Iron Man's hand reached out and grabbed him by the ankle in a crushing grip. 

Firebrand felt the pressure even through his armor and cried out in pain. He stamped at Iron Man's head with his free armored foot. Despite that, the Avenger wrenched upward on Firebrand's trapped leg, sending his foe onto his back. In a trice, he was atop Gilbert, one hand on his foe's throat and the other on his wrist, both of them exerting as much power as was left to him. 

"You fool," gasped Gilbert. "Don't you see, none of this matters? The Inferno's about to be released. It doesn't matter if I die. I intended to. All that matters is the Fire." 

"That's always all that matters to your kind, isn't it, Gilbert?" Iron Man said, in a gutteral voice. "Hitler. Stalin. Mao. All that matters is your moment of power. You don't care how many people you kill getting there. Well, not this time, mister. Never again." 

"We stand...on the brink...of a new world, Iron Man," Firebrand said. "Like Moses...neither of us will get to see it. But...it shall be. Triumph is at hand." 

"Yeah," said Iron Man. "America's." 

Then Iron Man's eyes widened in absolute horror. 

Firebrand's free hand was pressed to the floor of the cabin, burning a hole in it. 

"No!" The shout was involuntary, but Stark stood back up, keeping his hold on Firebrand's neck and wrist. Gary Gilbert was laughing. 

"It's too late, Stark. One spark is all it takes. And I've burned through the casing. Shouldn't be long now." 

"You—" 

Firebrand stuck his free hand in Iron Man's face and triggered all his flaming power, just as the armored Avenger grabbed Firebrand's wrist and crushed it. The inflammable fuel and heating coils, one building up and the other damaged beyond repair, performed a predictable function. 

They exploded. 

Gary Gilbert screamed. 

Iron Man thrust his foe away from him. The aircraft lurched. Firebrand fell away, through the open door. He did say something that Iron Man heard, briefly: 

"It hurts. Daddy, it hurts!" 

Then, about forty feet beneath his plane, Firebrand exploded into uncontrolled flame. 

Afterward, there was only enough ash to be scattered in the wind. 

For his part, Iron Man didn't have time to reflect on the death of his foe. The controls of the plane were damned well useless. He could smell the fire blazing beneath his feet. A shot of extinguisher from his belt didn't seem to make much difference. 

There was only one way left. 

Iron Man got to the doorway, grasped its edges, thrust himself outside, and, digging handholds in the fuselage with his own power, climbed atop the plane and began pushing it downward. 

The slipstream clawed at him. He could see the coast of California ahead, see the sea beckoning. No one could tell what the reaction would be, of Inferno 42 with water...hell, thermite burned even underwater, and it didn't have a tenth of the power of Inferno...but it was the only thing he could think of. 

The Air Force planes were still tracking him. It wouldn't do a bit of good now even if they shot him out of the sky. If he thought it would, he'd get on the horn and order them to. 

Iron Man poured all of his jet-power into directing the plane downward at a trajectory that would bring it into the ocean. From what he could see of the landscape below, he was near Los Angeles. 

But he could feel the flame beginning. 

Swearing, Tony Stark held on as long as he could, felt his gauntlets beginning to melt, felt his hands beginning to burn. He would have held on as long as he had to, directing the flaming thing into the water, if it would have cooperated, like Casey Jones dying with his hands on the wheel of his locomotive. 

But the plane burst into flame and blew him off. 

Iron Man screamed, half-aware, triggering his jets to take him away from the plane. The Air Force fighters converged on it, sending missiles toward it. He activated his radio, shouted at them not to do so. 

It was too late. 

Much too late. 

Now, there was only time for...   
  
  
  
  
  
  


FIRE! 

-M- 

The Inferno 42, almost a ton of it, detonated probably somewhere between the city of Los Angeles proper and the beaches by the sea, several hundred feet above sea level. The reactions of the citizenry were recorded for a nanosecond by the network and local news crews which had been on the watch since the USAF sent word to FEMA and FEMA started trying to evacuate the area. 

A nanosecond after that, cameras, reporters, citizens, and Los Angeles proper ceased to exist. 

This was followed by similar destruction more than a hundred miles up and down the coast and well inland. The sea itself boiled, causing ecological disaster which was not quantifiable decades after the incident. 

Major earthquakes along the San Andreas were triggered by the incident. California did not lose that piece of itself which abutted the Fault to the sea, but it might as well have. 

Millions upon millions died. 

The news spread across the country in minutes, as quickly as word of the death of Kennedy nine years before. It leapt across borders, across oceans, until no continent on Earth was unaware of what had taken place in America. 

All Earth now knew about the Fire. 

-M- 

Across America, battling radicals and authorities learned of the disaster, and faced aghast towards California. 

Weapons were put down. Conflicts were forgotten. Silence reigned in many places, but only for a moment. It was replaced by the wails of mourning. 

In terror, Leonid Breshnev assured Richard Nixon that the Soviets had nothing, repeat, nothing to do with the conflagration. For his part, Dick Nixon, remembering a farm in California, wept uncontrollably in the Oval Office. Henry Kissinger took the Hot Line and spoke to Breshnev. 

Men of every color, formerly foes, suddenly forgot what they had been fighting over and turned towards the West. 

Walter Cronkite was struck dumb. David Brinkley tried to explain things, and was unable to form words. Howard K. Smith, through his own tears, stuck by his post at ABC and did his best to let the nation know what had happened to it, what was happening to it, and what, perhaps, would happen to it. 

Fidel Castro almost exulted. The Russian representative on duty hit him in the mouth. A guard shot the Russian rep. Castro rubbed his mouth, spat, and wondered what the next gambit would be. 

There was no danger of war. The military knew, from the time their jets were scrambled, what the nature of the threat was and who it came from. Disaster had been wrought not by a Russian, a Chinese, or a Cuban, just by one malcontent American with too much of an eye on History and not enough on Humanity. 

Within minutes, everyone watching television in America knew the name of Gary Gilbert, and damned him. 

They damned him for the Fire. 

But where was Iron Man? 

-M- 

"Where's Shellhead? Where's Shellhead?" screamed Hawkeye. 

On the other end of the communications line, Ant-Man said, "Clint, how should I know? I don't have a...don't have a..." 

It was too much for him. Hank Pym sagged, his arm against the wall of the Thinker's hideout, and wept. 

The Wasp put her arms about him. "Hank. Tell us what happened." 

Hank thumbed down the volume level on the hand-held comm unit to reduce Hawkeye's scream level. "Only...what I got from Clint, Jan. It may not be accurate. I pray to God it isn't." At that point, Henry Pym gave up his scholarly agnosticism. 

"Tell us, Ant-Man," said Reed Richards, softly. "We have to know." 

"Aye," said Namor. "Speak, helmeted one." 

By this time, Hank was sitting with his back against the wall. "Apparently. There was. Some kind of. Conflagration. In California. A fire. A Fire." 

"A fire?" said Thor, bewilderedly. 

Ant-Man nodded, briefly. "A Fire. A big one. Maybe atomic. I don't know. No more Iron Man. No more Firebrand. No more...Los Angeles." 

"What?" This from Dr. Strange. 

"Good God!" This from Cyclops. 

"Uhhh?" This from the Hulk. 

"California?" gasped the Black Widow. "California?" She turned to Daredevil, buried her head against his chest, and cried. For his part, his lawyerly mind went, mercifully, blank. 

Hercules grasped Ant-Man and dragged him to standing position. "What meanest thou, Henry Pym? Hath the fires of Vulcan been loosed on your world?" 

"Peace, Hercules," said Sif, unable to say more. "Let him be." 

The Thing, a terrible light in his eyes, turned towards the Thinker and the Puppet Master, and advanced. "We had nothing to do with it! We had nothing to do with it!" shrieked Philip Masters. 

"That's the only reason you guys are still alive," said Ben Grimm, grabbing each by their shirtfronts and slamming them against the wall, pressing them there. "That's the only freakin' reason." 

For a long moment he held them there, then released them to slide down the wall. He went to a corner, turned his eyes to the wall, and did what strong men do when they feel no one is watching them. 

In a few seconds time, he was joined by the rest of the assemblage. 

The Thinker and Puppet Master didn't even consider trying to escape. 

-M- 

"My...God. My GOD." 

Nick Fury was probably the one who said it. But everyone else in the room was echoing it. Dum Dum Dugan, Val, Gabe, Sitwell, Jimmy Woo. 

Watching the blackened screen, Nick Fury tried in vain to say something. Then he threw down the phone, and walked towards the door. 

"Nick." Val was on her feet, trembling, following. She caught up to him in the hall. There were guards, but they kept quiet. 

"Shut up," he demanded, still walking. 

"I can't," she said, grasping his arm. "Nick, what are you going to do?" 

"Do?" He wheeled on her with a mien far beyond savage. "Do? What the hell is there to do? What the hell is there for anybody to do? It's done, honey. It's done." 

"You couldn't have prevented it, Nick." 

"I could! I coulda shot down the plane." 

"You would have touched off the Inferno." 

"Shut up!" 

"I won't! Nick, you can't expect...you can't be God." 

Nick Fury was silent for several seconds. Then he said, "This time...I shoulda been." 

He turned on his heel and went to his quarters. Val followed. 

The two of them were ensconced together for a good long while. 

-M- 

In concert, the Crazy World of Arthur Brown were about to start up their opening number. Arthur led off with his patented scream of, "I am the god of hellfire, and I come to bring you..." 

One of the techs turned the amp system off. Arthur Brown and his band were astonished. Then angry. Then Arthur himself was screaming, running backstage, trying to find the one who was responsible for this and to have him divided into as many component pieces as he could be and still survive. 

"Arthur. Arthur," one of the stagehands said. "It's over." 

"What?" 

"It's over. You hear about the Fire?" 

Within five minutes, he was made aware of the situation. Within ten, he was out front again, trying to explain the situation to the audience. 

And as he did, he knew he would never sing "Fire" again. 

-M- 

Those who had torched their neighborhoods in Atlanta and Detroit now joined the fire departments to help extinguish the blaze, pull survivors out of the wreckage, and contain the damage. Black men helped white men, white men helped blacks, men of other colors and faiths or no faiths at all pitched in. 

There was no talk of revolution. Change had come. Death had come with it. 

There was only time now for the things human beings do when other human beings suffer, and that was to try and help alleviate that suffering. 

Those who had followed Gilbert renounced him. Those who had opposed him now embraced his followers. 

The president managed to get on television and, haggard, addressed the nation as to what had happened. He explained, as best he could, in simple language, who Gary Gilbert was and what he had wrought. He called for national unity in the face of the disaster. 

He didn't have to, actually. 

That was one of the legacies of the Fire. 

-M- 

The Goblin didn't know what to expect when he heard the crashing noise behind him. A smashing, a tinkling, a splintering. Nonetheless, he had to look. 

Spider-Man was there, his chest heaving, his body crouching, and before him, on the stanchion of the George Washington Bridge, was the remnants of a destroyed bat-glider. 

"No way out, Goblin," Spider-Man said, very softly. "No way out." 

"Stay back," warned the man in green. "Stay back." 

"No way out, Goblin," said Spider-Man, rising to his full height. "No way out." 

The Goblin backed away, but there was precious little left to back away towards. 

"No way out," Spider-Man repeated, advancing. "No way out no way out nowayoutnowayout NO. WAY. OUT." 

The villain shot finger-bursts at his enemy, and Spider-Man almost brushed them away. He tried to unleash a pumpkin-bomb, but his foe knocked it away with a web-blast. 

"NO WAY OUT." 

Spider-Man shot a burst of webbing at the Goblin's feet to try and anchor him to the bridge support. The Goblin, frantically, leapt above it. 

That was the worst move possible, actually. 

He was too near the edge and his feet came down on solid air. 

He waved his arms, airplaning them, trying to gain a grasp on something, anything. It was useless. Unlike Spider-Man, he could not stick to a wall. 

The red haze over Peter Parker's mind retreated and, almost on automatic, he sped forward, unleashing more webbing to try and catch the Goblin, to try and save him. But the webbing shot over the Goblin's gloved hands. Just by a fingerbreadth, but that was enough. 

Sprinting around the webbed area wasn't any more useful. Spider-Man reached out, over the edge, but it was far too late. 

The Green Goblin fell. 

On the way, he smashed against the bridge support several more times, and left part of himself with every impact. There were screams from below, from the motorists who were watching an apparent suicide, the kind of thing that lives in urban legend but whom very few people get to see. 

What was left of the Goblin splattered across two cars and the bridge area between them. 

Above, looking downward, Spider-Man saw it all. 

-M- 

PARKER 

What am I supposed to say right now? I still can't tell you, kids. 

There was nothing coherent in my mind, at that time. Two people had just fallen off the Bridge. One that loved me, one that hated me. I saw what happened to the Goblin. If I'd had enough in me left, I probably would have thrown up all over the inside of my mask. 

But I didn't. 

I stood there, on the very edge of the bridge support. You don't know how long a long way down is until you've been on the very top of the George Washington Bridge, looking down at the concrete and the automobiles and the sea below it and the cables and everything and something more than vertigo takes over and you know two people have taken the plunge and it only makes sense for you to make it three. 

I was standing there, but I wasn't going to be standing there for long. I could leap. I could leap out far enough that I wouldn't have anything to grab hold of, anything to stick to, and I could keep myself from spurting out my webline. It'd only take a few seconds. Maybe only a second. I could shut my eyes and within a minute I'd be reunited with Gwen again. I did believe that. 

So I gathered what was left in me and got ready for the biggest jump of my life. 

That was when I heard a very familiar voice behind me calling, "Spidey..." 

-M- 

"...are you looking for her?" 

Turning so quickly even the man he faced was astonished, Spider-Man came away from the edge. 

Before him, two figures hung in the air. 

One was his wife Gwen, tears in her eyes, a gag still in her mouth, but otherwise unharmed. 

The other, holding her by the wrists, was the Human Torch. 

Johnny Storm was in flame, except for his hands. Gwen hung from them like the wooden trapeze artist on a string that Peter had seen among Aunt May's memorabilia. The Human Torch was in flame, and flying, and bringing Gwen Parker back to a comfortable two-point landing in her stocking feet on the top of the George Washington Bridge. 

The Torch had already taken care of the bonds between her hands and feet. Gwen ripped the gag from her mouth, running towards Spider-Man. Spider-Man, standing as moveable as Lincoln's statue for a moment, broke and ran towards her as well. 

They met in the middle of the bridge support, and, for what they felt, there were no words. 

Only embraces and tears. 

The Human Torch, knowing enough to keep his peace, touched down on the stanchion and flamed off. Being up this high didn't sit well with him, either, but at least he could flame on and fly off if he had to. When the time was right, he was going to talk to Spidey. 

He had to. 

There were whisperings and murmurings between the two other people on the bridge. Johnny Storm heard both of them crying. He had never heard Spider-Man do that before. He had never known Spider-Man was married, or beloved, before, though there could be no mistaking it now. 

He thought of Crystal, and knew the decision he had to make. 

Spider-Man had only one arm around the woman, now. She still looked scared, tears were still in her eyes. But she also held onto her man in great relief, reassurance, and what looked like the knowledge that everything would somehow right itself. Despite the horror, despite the death, something would still remain. And be worthy. 

"Torch," said Spider-Man. "Torch. How?" 

"You mean, how did I get here?" 

"How? How did you know?" 

Johnny Storm ran both of his hands through his hair. "I guess...I guess it was the Watcher. He appeared to us, to Ben and Reed and Sue and me, and he showed us someplace we had to go, and we tried to go there. But I don't know what happened. I showed up here, over the Bridge, and saw you and the Goblin fighting, and him throwing her off. I...well, I caught her. I didn't hurt you any, did I, ma'am?" 

Gwen sniveled and smiled. "No. No, I'm all right. Thank you. Thank you." 

He tried to say, "You're welcome," but it was cut short by Spider-Man's powerful hug. 

After a few seconds, Spider-Man murmured, "Torch. I've got something to show you." 

"Uh, Spidey. I've got a girlfriend." 

"Numbskull." The web-slinger turned him loose, looked to make sure no news helicopters were on the scene with prying cameras, and, facing the Torch, put one hand to the top of his mask... 

...and pulled it off. 

The Torch's eyes widened and his jaw dropped. Gwen was astonished, too. Peter had vowed to her that she would be the only one other than him to know the true face of Spider-Man, and both of them would have to take that knowledge to their graves. 

But now, a third was in the circle. 

"Peter Parker," said Johnny Storm, incredulously. "You're Peter Parker. Can't believe it. Are you really..." 

"Yeah," said Spider-Man, mask in hand. "We've met, without the mask. Several times." 

"We sure have," said Johnny. "Spidey, ah...I know we've had our blow-ups, right?" 

"Yup." Peter Parker was grinning. 

"But you know, uh, that I..." 

"I know you won't tell, Torch. I just didn't know any other way to pay you back." He pulled the mask back over his head, and held out his hand. 

The Human Torch grasped it, firmly. 

"Till death," Spider-Man said. 

"Till death," Johnny Storm echoed. 

Then the Torch said, "That's some Watcher." 

"Yeah." 

"You want me to take her down for you?" 

"Nope. Some things I like to do myself. But you'll hang around and make sure we get down okay, right?" 

"You know it, Spidey. You know it." 

Gwen stepped closer to her husband. "Peter," she said. "The baby." 

"In good hands," said Spider-Man. "The Goblin saw to that. Ready to go?" 

Gwen looked down. "I guess so. Uh, what did you have in mind?" 

"Get behind me and wrap your arms around my back." 

She did so. Spider-Man webbed her arms firmly to his chest. When she put her legs around him from behind, he did the same to her ankles. 

Then, with the Human Torch in flame and flight, the two of them made the journey down the bridge support. At least till they got to a place where Spider-Man could unleash another web and begin swinging the long journey home. 

Gwen shut her eyes for the entire trip. 

-M- 

PARKER 

And that was the end of it. Or our part in it. Almost. 

Osborn had given May to Mrs. Watson, Mary Jane's mother...left her on the doorstep, really. Mrs. Watson didn't know what to think, but she was glad as heck when both of us came to her door and took charge of our little girl again. And yes, I was dressed in my civvies by that time. 

The three of us got home, the Torch having taken off as soon as we were safely on our way home, and we made sure May was in fine spirits (which she was, screaming her little head off, as usual, and don't tell her I said that). I collapsed in the front room on my favorite chair. I just didn't know what to think anymore. I don't think I had the capacity to think much, about what I'd already been through, about its implications. Somebody once said words to the effect that one of the most merciful things about the human mind is the inability to assess all of its contents. I think I can second that one. 

While Gwen was in the other room, I turned on the TV. 

I saw something. Something that made me turn it off right there. 

Something about Fire. 

Gwen asked me from the other room if there was anything wrong. 

I pulled the electrical cord out of the back of the TV, hid it in my pocket, and said, "No, honey. Nothing wrong. There's nothing wrong here at all." 

Then I went to her, and you youngsters don't need to hear the rest of it. 

I said you don't need to hear the rest of it, kid! 

But I'll tell you the rest of the story. 

-M- 

On the Avengers communicator, it was Thor who heard it first. "Hello? Can anybody hear me? Can anybody hear me? Over." 

The thunder god, and those about him, recognized the voice. Thor snapped open his communicator. "Aye, Iron Man. Thou speakest with Thor. Where art thou?" 

"I am..." There was a cough on the other end of the line. "I'm in the desert. California. Can't move too easily." 

The other heroes began to gather about Thor. "What be your condition, Iron Man? Are you hurt?" 

"Been better. How's my signal?" 

"We shall track you down at once," Thor said, readying his hammer. "How is your foe?" 

"Dead." 

"Then thou art triumphant." 

There was a hacking cough. "Triumph? Triumph?" 

The comm unit fell silent. 

Thor looked up. The Silver Surfer was before him. "We shall travel together, Thor." 

"And I," said Sif. 

"And I as well," demanded Hercules. 

"You're not leaving us behind," said Ant-Man, stepping towards them. 

The Thing said, "Guess it's settled, then. We all go." 

Medusa asked, "How will it be done? We have no vehicles?" 

"Like this," said the Surfer. 

With one hand, he gestured towards the ceiling, and split it open, revealing the sky without. 

With the other, he pointed at his surfboard, and expanded it until it shoved aside almost everything in the room. Another gesture bound the Puppet Master and Thinker in bonds of cosmic energy. 

"Climb aboard," said the Surfer. 

The host of heroes did, finding a strange power binding their feet to the board. Then it rose into the sky, and they were off. 

-M- 

Within his shell, Tony Stark wept. 

A triumph? Was that what they called it? 

When the whole coast of Southern California goes up in flames, is that one in the win column? 

When you could have saved untold millions of lives if you'd caught the madman who killed them when you first fought him? Or even, God help us, killed him? Even if that was never Iron Man's way? 

If he'd only have known. 

And how could he have known? 

Why didn't he? 

Why? 

Why? 

Iron Man, lying on the sands where he had fallen, looked at the horizon and saw flames and smoke. The pyre of California. The pyre of America. 

No. No, that must not be. Whatever else, America must survive. With all its flaws and injustices, with all its inequities, it was still the greatest, grandest nation of all, the shining city on the hill. He had given his life to it. He would give his life for it. 

Perhaps he already had. 

His body was burned. How badly, he had no idea. Most of his armor systems were shut down. The radio still worked. He didn't know how long it would be before dehydration or exposure took his life. That might be a mercy... 

(Stop thinking like that, Stark!) 

(Why not? WHY NOT?) 

Then there was something between him and the sun. A great, shining something. Probably an hallucination. Or perhaps a fabled chariot, comin' for to carry him home. 

He heard Thor call his name. That was the wrong theology for him. 

Looked like he was going to live, after all. 

Whether it was worth it, or not. 

-M- 

The Surfer had to open Iron Man's armor to heal him. All present saw the face of Tony Stark. Most were surprised, but a few thought that it was only logical. With a burst of Power Cosmic, Iron Man's burns and wounds were healed. 

Then the Surfer said, "The others will tend you. Thor and I have work to do." 

With that, the Surfer boarded his now normal-sized surfboard, Thor swung his hammer about his head, and the two of them took off in the direction of the Fire. Not even the Power Cosmic and Thor's storm-making abilities were enough to totally douse the conflagration. But they helped. 

The Avengers summoned a rescue helicopter for Stark and transport for the rest of them. While they waited, Sub-Mariner noticed the Hulk looking at the fire in the distance. 

"Burning," said the Hulk. 

"Indeed," said Prince Namor, softly, behind him. 

"What does it mean?" 

"It means," said Namor, choosing his words carefully, "that Man finally lost control of his anger, his reason, and his toys. That one man acted too much like a selfish child. Like a selfish, dangerous child. That is what it means, Hulk." 

The green goliath turned towards his ally. "Will they blame this on Hulk?" 

Namor said, "No. No, Hulk. I doubt anybody will blame anything evil on you again." He put his hand on the Hulk's shoulder. "Let us join the others." 

They did. 

-M- 

PARKER 

That was the end of the age, kids. The end of the Second Age of Heroes. 

Even the bad guys knew the war was over. Dr. Strange and Thor gave 'em a choice: stay here, and deal with a government that was sick and tired of them and blamed well ready to execute them, or go to another dimensional world they'd picked out for 'em. Just about all of 'em made the second choice. We haven't really heard from them since. Maybe they're doing well, where they're at. Maybe they're the founders of a whole new society. It's happened before. 

The millions of people who died in California...nobody can say anything about that. I hate to think it took something like that to bring us together. Maybe it did. Whatever it was, nobody seemed very interested in making a revolution after that. Everybody was looking to the West. 

Everybody was looking to California. 

The movie industry, and what TV there was out there, died with it. They operate mainly out of New York now, and Seattle, and Dallas, and some in Northern California. A lot of famous people died that night. But I weep more for the people who weren't famous, whose names we probably won't ever know. They don't even have a mark like the Hiroshima lovers left on a wall before they were vaporized. There's just a big black hole in the Earth that's been partially filled in by the sea, now. It's still dangerous. They say it's decontaminated now, but they say a lot of things. 

The Japanese were the first to offer aid. I think I can understand why. 

AIM and HYDRA, their parent bunch, got tracked down and tried like the Nazis at Nuremberg. Not even the guys against the death penalty seemed to much mind when a lot of them went to the gas chamber. At that, I guess they got off better than another branch of their company, the one called the Secret Empire. President Nixon made a point out of having those guys hunted down and shot. He claimed that they were the brains of the entire operation, after Gilbert. I don't know if they were or not. 

I do know he didn't run again. That surprised a lot of people, but so did Johnson when he said he wouldn't in 1967. He just retired to San Clemente, and a few years ago he passed away. Whatever secrets he had, he probably took with him. Unless he has some other memoirs the government has under lock and key. I wouldn't put it past them. I'll probably never know. 

We pulled out of Vietnam. Didn't have the energy or desire to spend on the war anymore. We needed the troops home. The Commies took over, until the Second Revolution threw them out. I don't know how it is over there and have no desire to find out. 

You know what happened in Russia, China, Cuba, and South America from your history books. Europe, too. I'll just tell you about the heroes. 

Captain America was dead. So was the Red Skull, but that wasn't much comfort. They found what was left of the both of them, identified them by dental records, and gave Cap a tomb in Arlington that people still put flowers on every day. Some people, a lot of them, wondered if somebody else would try to be Cap, the way they did after World War II. It hasn't happened. At least, not yet. 

But there's more than a few out there who insist that Cap is still alive, that he'll rise up like King Arthur to defend America in its darkest hour. There are worse things to believe in. 

The Falcon, his former partner, recovered from the beating the Red Skull had given him. For about a year, he continued on as the hero of Harlem. Then he gave it up. He said he couldn't do what Cap did, but he could do what he could do better. So he revealed his secret identity, Sam Wilson, and went to work as a social worker. Later, he became a politician, and did pretty well for himself. He's married, like the rest of us. 

Cap's girlfriend, Sharon Carter, never quite recovered emotionally from his death. She left the United States and lives in Europe now. She never married. 

Rick Jones, who used to be Cap's partner, was in California at the time of the Fire. He's presumed dead. 

Nick Fury was changed by the Fire, too. Still a tough guy, but you could tell that the Fire haunted him. No...it was his failure, as he saw it, to do anything about the Fire that changed him. They all told him there wasn't much more he could have done than what he did, but I don't think Nick ever accepted that. Nonetheless, he got married to his lady, Val de Fontaine, and raised a family. Stepped down from SHIELD directorship and gave the post to Jasper Sitwell. He's done well with it. Married a woman named Laura Brown. 

Clay Quatermain recovered and took a desk job with SHIELD. I made sure I found that out, too. Jimmy Woo led the fight against a baddie named the Yellow Claw, killed him in battle, and wound up marrying the Claw's daughter, Suwaan. Apparently they'd had a thing going for some time. Dum Dum Dugan and Gabe Jones eventually retired. The Heli-Carrier was dismantled and a lot of it was sunk at sea. The part that didn't have the big secrets, that is. Nobody wanted to pay the fuel bills for keeping another Heli-Carrier in the air anymore. SHIELD has another headquarters, but I don't know where it is, and neither does anybody else who doesn't need to know. 

Iron Man kinda faded out of the picture. The Avengers showed him alive, to reassure everybody, but announced that he was retiring. So were Ant-Man, the Wasp, and a few others. Hawkeye stayed on. So did the Vision, the Scarlet Witch, and Quicksilver, and a few other cats. But Hawkeye was the leader, and he did Captain America proud. 

The Black Panther went back to Wakanda and stayed there to be its king. He married a woman named Monica Lynne, from America. 

As for Thor, he, Sif, and the Asgardians went home and weren't seen too much around these parts. He did come back for an Avengers reunion, along with Sif, and they announced they'd gotten married. What happened to Loki, who was his worst enemy, I have no clue. It was handled up in Asgard, and that's where they stayed. 

The X-Men gave the bad guy mutants the choice of joining with them or going to the other world with the rest of the villains. They chose the latter. Cyclops and his pals were never the same after Professor X died. The old X-Men went back into retirement. The new crew soldiered on for some time, and even picked up some new members from other countries. There's still a bunch that calls themselves "X-Men", but they aren't the same guys and they don't much operate in the open. 

The Fantastic Four got out of the hero business. The Torch went back to school, got his degree, became an auto designer for GM. He married Crystal, and Reed got her out of her breathing problems. The Thing married his girlfriend, Alicia Masters. They had a normal son who looked a lot like Ben Grimm used to look, before he changed. Even the Puppet Master mellowed a little, after the baby arrived. But not by much. And Reed and Sue continued raising Franklin, who started a whole new hero group when he got older. I don't know what happened to the woman who was his nanny. I understand there was some friction there, but I don't pry. 

I don't know how many years Reed and Ben have got in them. I hope they've got a lot. 

Of course, it was Reed who gave the Hulk his famous treatment. That was the gimmick he'd worked out with Bruce Banner, a ray that gave the Hulk intelligence and let him control his changes. They'd done it once before, but the Leader had bollixed that up. This time, they fixed that flaw, and the Hulk turned out just fine. Got a pardon, married Betty Ross, who was his old girlfriend, and kept working for the government. Sometimes he makes public appearances as Banner, sometimes as the Hulk. Depends on how he's feeling each morning, I guess. 

The Leader tried to crash the wedding, like he'd done before. The Hulk clobbered him, zapped him with a gamma ray gun, and changed him back to whoever he'd been before he was the Leader. That, apparently, was that. 

The Silver Surfer wasn't exactly loved, despite the fact that he'd done his part to put out the Fire and that he'd been controlled by the Puppet Master. Nobody could forget the devastation he'd wrought, even if he was somebody's pawn. It wasn't fair, but that's the way it was. He kept a lower profile until the day Reed Richards found a way of getting him past the barrier that kept him on Earth. I think he went back to his homeworld. I do know we've never seen him here again.   


Sub-Mariner got Atlantis recognized by the United Nations and hasn't given anyone too much trouble since then. He's still married to his Lady Dorma, from what I hear, and their son is reportedly grown up and married to some blue-skinned girl, too. Namorita got hitched to somebody and is a princess of Atlantis now, too. I'm told that Namor had a reunion with his father before his dad died, but I couldn't tell you if that was true or not.   


The Inhumans got much the same recognition. They're still out there in Attilan, which is a protected zone. Black Bolt and Medusa got married, and had children who grew up, as children do, as you will. Their kids are royalty, which is something you'll have to work on. 

What happened to Dr. Strange, I have no idea. He and Clea left their brownstone a long time ago. Maybe they're still out there, somewhere, fighting the good fight, doing whatever they do. I don't suppose there's any way of telling. 

Daredevil kept operating for awhile, but faded from sight after a few years. I think it was because his woman, the Black Widow, married Matt Murdock, a blind lawyer. They both live in the Apple, have kids, and, from what I hear, don't talk too much about Natasha's hero or spying days. 

I told you Iron Man quit the scene. His boss, Tony Stark, didn't. He married some woman named Whitney Longfellow, who seemed to pop up out of nowhere. Nobody seemed to know a lot about her background. But she and Tony were happy, and he didn't end up selling his company to Howard Hughes, after all. As a matter of fact, he took over Gilbert Industries in the wake of the Fire. 

The Fire... 

Sorry, kids, you know how it is. Didn't mean to zone out there. 

Nope, Tony took it over more or less because he felt he had to. He and his wife have a son and a daughter, too. But, I'll tell you. In those news photos and film footage, I've never seen a man that looked more haunted, at times, than Tony Stark. He did fight a battle against alcoholism and won it. I think his wife told him that if it was her or the bottle, and she won out. There's only so many things a bottle can do, after all. 

But Gary Gilbert. 

They've damned him as worse than Hitler, and well they might. He killed—murdered—in one day, in one hour, more millions of people than we can even estimate. He didn't delegate the responsibility to some other slugs, like Hitler did. 

He did it himself. 

Why? 

Because he thought he'd be getting a better world, and that was worth the sacrifice of everybody in the old world we had. 

Never let anybody con you with that argument, kids. 

Ever. 

And they WILL try. 

Conversely, Gilbert's father is a martyr figure now, and that's slight repayment for what happened to him. But I guess it's his due. 

I guess I should tell you what happened to me and Gwen, too, although you know some of it. 

Well, I couldn't keep the knowledge of the Fire away from Gwen forever. She looked drained after she found out about it. But she had a child to raise, and a husband to look after, and there's only so much horror you can register. After all, we'd managed to make it through the Goblin trying to kill us both. 

But she made me promise never to put on the blue-and-reds again, and I haven't. The hero thing was over, for me. I had what I always wanted: a family. 

Most of the rest of us knew it was over. Our age was the Sixties. That was gone, now, in substance and spirit. We couldn't keep going forever, into our forties and beyond. That's just for the comic books. 

Of course, that didn't stop a new crop of heroes from turning up, guys like Iron Fist and Shang-Chi and Nova and Ghost Rider and Moon Knight and Moondragon and Valkyrie and Luke Cage, and probably a bunch of others I forget. There were still villains out there popping up, too, like   
Fu Manchu and Dracula and the Sphinx and a few others. I didn't keep up with them. They weren't what we were, and they seemed to be handling things pretty well on their own. 

That age passed, too. 

We had another child. A son. That was your father, George Benjamin Parker. When he was your age, I told George and his sister May the story I'm telling you tonight. I've told May's children the same story. 

It's a family secret. We have to keep it a secret. 

With great power comes great responsibility. I hand this responsibility to you. Are you ready to take it? 

Good. Good. 

All right. Let's join the others. 

But never forget the Fire, young ones. Never forget the Fire. 

-M- 

The door opened. The old man looked up. 

In the doorway, his wife, Gwen, stood there in her dress, apron, sensible black shoes, and glasses. Her hairstyle was a compromise between the early-Seventies 'do she always favored and a contemporary cut. It looked good on her, but almost everything did. 

Gwen's age showed. But she was still, all things considered, a beauty. 

"Have you finished talking to them, Peter? Dinner's ready." 

Peter Parker, bespectacled and gray at the temples, smiled and nodded. "Yeah. I just gave them our Perils of Pauline moment. We'll be there, Gwen. Honest." 

Rick, the son of George Parker, practically leaped up. "Granma! You really did that? That thing really happened to you?" 

Gwen Parker looked sternly at her grandson. "What thing?" 

Quieting, Rick, all of 5 years old, said, "Nothing. I mean, nothing, Granny Gwen. That's right, isn't it?" 

Solemnly, Gwen nodded. "The secrets Peter reveals in this room must stay in this room. And in your hearts. Understand?" 

Rick nodded. 

Gwen looked at Mary Parker, a young blonde girl in jumpers. "How's about you, missy?" 

"I won't tell nothin' either, Granma. But, gee. That nothin' sure musta been somethin'." 

"It was," said Gwen. "Oh, it was." 

Peter ruffled Mary's hair and took his two charges in hand. "Let's go, young 'uns. Food awaiteth." 

On the way to the dining room, Peter was met by George, his son. The boy was doing all right for himself as an investment broker. No need for him to peddle photos to the Daily Bugle, which was continuing on under the editorship of Robbie Robertson. "Dad. You told them the story, right?" 

"Right," said Peter. 

George smiled. "That's good. That's very good, Dad. Heritage. Everyone has to know about it, and we've got something to be proud of." 

Peter Parker smiled. "They didn't seem to think so in the Sixties." 

"They didn't think about a lot of things, back then." 

"Or maybe they thought about different things. That's over, George. Let's grab some table space." 

George put his arm around his father's shoulders. "It'll never be over, Dad. Never as long as man endures." 

Dinner was had, then, and stories were told of what had transpired since their last meetings. May Parker Riley, Peter's daughter, made sure she sat across from her dad. She was flanked by her husband, Frank, and her two children. To Peter, she said, "When do you think you'll be telling my kids the story, Daddy?" 

After forking down some of Gwen's turkey and dressing, Peter said, "Would next year be too soon?" 

"Next year would be just fine," said May, beaming. Gwen smiled, as well. 

Veronica, May's young daughter, piped up. To Rick and Mary, she said, "Grampa told you a story?" 

Both of George's children looked at each other, and nodded, finally. 

"What about?" 

"Uh...the Three Little Pigs," said Rick. 

"And Rapunzel," put in Mary. 

"That's it?" asked Jerry, May's son. 

"Well, you just gotta hear the way Grampa tells it," insisted Mary. 

Ronnie shrugged. "Okay," she said, with a tone of disgust. Thankfully, Rick and Mary kept their smiles to themselves. 

The presents were had that night with much uproar, and then, after much more talk and eggnog, everybody went to bed. 

After breakfast next morning, the gathering was ready to break up. Goodbyes were said. The last of these was between Peter, Gwen, George, and Mary. But Rick ran up to them and tugged on Peter's pants leg. "Grampa," he said. "I just gotta ask you somethin'." 

"Well, ask away, youngster. We've probably got all of five minutes before you have to go." 

Rick whispered his question. "Do you ever think there'll be another Fire?" 

Peter looked soberly at him. "You promised not to tell." 

"I'm not," he said. "Don't Dad and aunt May know?" 

"They do," said Peter. "That's the only reason you're getting away with it. But. Fires burn out, Ricky. Just be glad we haven't had one in a long time." 

George and May exchanged a glance. Gwen caught it, but said nothing. "Let's go, youngster," said George, and herded his son to the car. 

Thus ended Christmas, 1999. 

-M- 

By New Year's Day, things were a bit different. 

In New York City, the Positivists, an ethical terrorist group, were threatening to botch city-running computer systems and steal documents from the Justice Department. Two citizens were determined to prevent that. 

The Mediator, a costumed heroine who swung on a cable of her own design, met on the rooftop of the Daily Bugle with her partner, the Ombudsman, who favored an exoskeleton that augmented his strength and jumping power. 

May Parker smiled at the Ombudsman. "Fires burn out," she said. 

George Parker smiled back at the Mediator. "But sometimes they start up again. If nobody's watching." 

"We've got work to do." 

"We always will," said the Ombudsman. 

The two of them left the building roof and were lost in the night and distance. 

=M= 

For the following:   
Stan Lee   
Jack Kirby   
Steve Ditko   
Roy Thomas   
Archie Goodwin   
And all the others, without whose work we would never have had a Marvel Universe. 

'Nuff said. 

–DarkMark, 4 / 16 / 04   
  



End file.
